THE  POETS 


THE  POET 


LW  ENGLAND 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 


Other  Books  by  the  Same  Author 

j* 

"Hawthorne's  Country" 
"Longfellow's  Country" 

"Browning's  Italy" 

"Browning's  England" 

"Ancient  Myths  in  Modern  Poets' 

"A  Guide  to  Mythology" 


YOUNG   READERS 


THE   BAKER   &   TAYLOR   COMPANY 
33  E.  17th  Street,  Union  Square  North     New  York 


WHEN  THE  SHADOWS  ARE  LONG 


THE    POETS' 
NEW  ENGLAND 


BY 

HELEN  ARCHIBALD  CLARKE 

Author  of 

"Browning's  Italy,"  "Browning's  England," 

"Ancient  Myths  in  Modern  Poets,"  "Longfellow's  Country, 

"Hawthorne's  Country,"  etc.,  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  BAKER  &  TAYLOR  COMPANY 
1911 


Copyright,  1911,  ly 
THE  BAKER  AND  TAYLOR  COMPANY 


Published  October,  1911 


William  G.  Hewitt,  Brooklyn,  N.  7. 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

The  author  begs  to  acknowledge  her  thanks  to 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  for  permission  to  make 
illustrative  quotations  from  their  Cambridge  editions 
of  Whittier,  Longfellow,  Emerson,  Holmes  and 
Lowell;  and  to  D.  Appleton  &  Co.  for  permission 
to  make  illustrative  quotations  from  their  Roslyn 
edition  of  Bryant. 


CONTENTS 

Chapter  Page 

I.     Nature:  From  the  Hills  to  the  Sea      -  1 

II.     Romance:  Legendary  and  Historical     -  73 

III.     History:  From  the  Birth  of  the  Nation 

to  its  Majority                    ...  143 

IV.     Friendship:  Personal  and  Literary        -  225 

V.     Thought:  Emotional  and  Intellectual    -  291 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 
PAGE 

"When  the  Shadows  are  Long" — Frontispiece  in  color 

by  G.  H.  Hood. 
Merrimac  at  Newburyport,  from   a  photograph  by 

Ethel  C.  Brown 10 

Mount  Washington  from  Lake  Winnipesaukee       .      .  16 

Tulips  in  the  Public  Garden,  Boston 38 

The  Longfellow  House,  Portland 54 

Surf  at  Nahant :  Longfellow's  Summer  Home  ...  56 
Salt  Marshes :  Hampton,  from  a  photograph  by  Ethel 

C.  Brown 58 

Off  the  Coast  of  Rockport,  Cape  Ann 60 

Monadnock,  from  a  photograph  by  E.  D.  Putnam, 

Antrim,  N.  H 66 

Off  the  Coast  of  New  England 70 

Cotton  Mather .      ,      .  76 

Among  the  "White  Hills" 88 

Nantucket 118 

Old  South  Church     .             120 

Portsmouth 124? 

Marblehead 130 

Pemaquid  Point 136 

The  Saco  River 138 

The  Minute  Man 146 

Old  Boston 150 

The  Tea-Party  House  on  Hollis  Street,  Boston      .       .  156 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 
PAGE 

The  Washington  Elm,  Cambridge 162 

Concord  Bridge  and  Soldiers'  Monument     .      .      .      .168 
Statue   of   William    Lloyd    Garrison,    Commonwealth 

Avenue,  Boston 172 

Lincoln 190 

Bunker  Hill  Monument .206 

Peace  Jubilee 224 

Bryant,  1794-1878 228 

Emerson,  1803-1882,  from  a  photograph  by  Ethel  C. 

Brown 238 

Whittier,  1807-1892 254 

Longfellow,  1807-1882 262 

Beaver  Brook 268 

Holmes,  1809-1894         272 

Lowell,  1819-1891 282 

Harvard  in  Earlier  Days 288 

The  Whittier  Homestead  at  Haverhill,  from  a  photo- 
graph by  Ethel  C.  Brown 302 

Whittier  Memorial,  Haverhill,  from  a  photograph  by 

Ethel  C.  Brown 310 

Longfellow's  Study  at  Craigie  House 316 

Beacon  Street  House  of  Holmes,  from  a  photograph  by 

Ethel  C.  Brown 322 

"Elmwood,"  Lowell's  Home 330 

Emerson's  Home  336 


NATURE: 
FROM    THE    HILLS    TO    THE    SEA 


"The  tremulous  shadow  of  the  Sea!    Against  its  ground 
Of  silvery  light,  rock,  hill  and  tree, 
Still  as  a  picture,  clear  and  free, 

With  varying  outline  mark  the  coast  for  miles  around." 

— WHITTLES. 


I 

NATTJEE:  FROM  THE  HILLS  TO  THE  SEA 


poet  who  could  not  find  constant  inspira- 
tion in  the  beautiful  and  varied  scenery  of 
New  England  would  be  as  dull  to  beauty  as 
the  individual  made  proverbial  by  Shakespeare  who 
has  no  music  in  his  soul.  Other  portions  of  the  coun- 
try have  grander  and  more  awe-inspiring  scenes  to 
offer,  but  about  nature  in  New  England  there  is  at 
once  a  strength  and  a  reticence  which  make  it  pecu- 
liarly dear  both  to  those  who  have  been  born  within 
her  borders  and  to  those  coming  from  afar  who  have 
adopted  into  their  hearts  "the  stern  and  rock-bound 
coast"  of  the  Pilgrims,  its  stony  fields  and  its  fir- 
clad  hills.  These  are  the  things  which  give  accent  to 
the  New  England  landscape,  yet  how  much  more 
there  is!  Often  the  "stern  and  rock-bound  coast" 
loses  itself  in  fair  reaches  of  marsh-land  or  sandy 
beaches,  perhaps  a  mile  wide,  from  the  heart  of  which 
one  seems  to  look  up  to  the  dark  blue  of  the  far-away 
ocean.  Interspersed  with  the  stony  fields,  there  is 
many  a  thriving  farm  sunning  itself  upon  the  verdant 
slopes  of  low-lying  hills;  and  while  in  the  more  north- 
ern portions  evergreens  —  firs,  and  pines  and  cedars 
—  are  in  the  ascendant,  the  sturdiness  of  their  outlines 
is  in  many  regions  relieved  by  trees  of  temperaments 

3 


4          THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

less  stern,  especially  the  nervous  birch, — "Quivering 
to  tell  her  woe,  but  ah!  dumb,  dumb  forever!"  Even 
on  the  coast,  maples,  beeches  and  oaks  are  not  infre- 
quent, not  to  speak  of  an  occasional  tree  of  some  other 
variety,  while  inland  these  and  many  other  trees  di- 
versify the  open  lands  or  cluster  together  in  the  woods. 
In  her  most  umbrageous  neighborhoods,  however,  the 
trees  do  not  run  riot  in  their  leaves.  The  foliage  of 
New  England  is  reticent,  too;  the  other  trees  seem  to 
have  borrowed  something  of  the  quiet  dignity  of  the 
pines  and  firs  among  which  they  live. 

Moreover,  to  speak  merely  of  a  "rock-bound  coast" 
is  to  give  but  a  meager  idea  of  the  scenery  of  a  shore 
whose  rocks  have  been  fashioned  by  the  forces  of 
nature,  now  into  lofty  cliffs  rent  by  chasms,  within 
whose  depths  the  ocean  lets  loose  its  loudest  thunders ; 
now  into  a  chaos  of  jagged  bowlders,  or  again  into 
huge,  symmetrical  blocks  over  which  one  may  walk, 
provided  an  alert  eye  be  kept  for  an  occasional  co- 
lossal step  up  or  down,  as  easily  as  upon  a  floor. 

The  farther  up  the  coast  or  "down  east,"  as  the 
phrase  is,  one  goes,  the  higher  become  the  shores,  until 
at  last  are  reached  the  fir-clad  hills  that  dabble  their 
feet  in  the  ocean  spray.  Striking  inland,  rock  and 
cliff  become  wonderful  groups  of  mountains,  from 
whose  highest  peaks  might  be  flashed  signal  lights, 
starting  with  Graylock,  at  the  extreme  west  of  Mas- 
sachusetts, and  ending  with  the  lonely  giant  Katahdin 
in  the  north  of  Maine. 

Lakes  of  many  shapes,  sometimes  in  chains,  some- 
times single,  adorn  its  hillsides  and  valleys.  Frolick- 
ing streams  tumble  down  its  mountain  sides  to  become 
either  impetuous  or  torpid  rivers,  which,  more  often 


THE  POETS*  NEW  ENGLAND          5 

than  not,  find  their  way  to  the  sea  in  broad  estuaries, 
where  tide  and  current  fight  daily  for  mastery. 

Few  of  the  beauties  of  New  England  scenery  have 
been  left  unsung  by  her  master  poets.  It  is  true  that 
all  have  not  displayed  an  equal  intensity  of  vision,  but 
all  show  in  their  work  the  influence  of  their  mother- 
land upon  them — not  merely  in  their  descriptions  di- 
rect, of  nature,  but  in  more  subtle  ways.  Doubtless, 
the  future  scientific  student  of  literature  will  classify 
his  New  England  poets  with  the  same  glibness  that 
he  now  does  the  Elizabethans  or  the  Lake  school 
among  English  poets,  placing  them  in  their  proper 
anthropological  niche  according  to  their  geography. 

Among  the  group  of  poets  which  has  caused  New 
England  to  glow  with  a  steady  and  gentle  radiance 
in  the  great  world  of  English  letters,  John  Greenleaf 
Whittier  must  be  accorded  the  first  rank  as  a  painter 
of  landscapes.  Not  only  in  those  poems  classified  by 
himself  as  nature  poems,  but  also  in  his  poems  of  ro- 
mance and  legend  there  is  always  a  nature  setting  to 
lend  its  charm  to  the  living  beings  upon  whom  the 
chief  interest  centers.  Sometimes  the  vista  includes 
nature  modified  by  the  ruthless  hand  of  man  in  mills 
and  factories ;  again  nature  may  be  compressed  into  an 
old-fashioned  New  England  interior,  but  always  the 
reader  will  see  pictures,  as  if  to  the  poet's  pen  had 
been  added  the  magic  of  the  artist's  brush. 

Whittier's,  however,  was  no  impressionistic  or  sym- 
bolistic touch.  He  observed  minutely  and  painted  his 
poetic  pictures  with  a  conscientious  fidelity  to  detail, 
reminding  one  of  the  early  school  of  English  landscape 
painters. 

One  would  hardly  be  likely  to  regard  the  town  of 


6         THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Haverhill,  where  Whittier  was  born,  nor  that  of  the 
not  far-distant  Amesbury,  his  home  for  the  major 
part  of  his  life,  as  the  key  to  New  England  scenery. 
Yet  Whittier  seems  to  make  it  so.  From  what  point 
of  vantage  does  he  see  all  that  he  describes?  Did  he 
go  forth  upon  his  housetop  as  upon  a  pinnacle  of 
magic  vision  from  which  he  could  descry  every  moun- 
tain splendor  from  Chocorua  to  Agamenticus,  every 
shimmering  lake  stretching  northwards  to  Winnepe- 
saukee,  every  ocean  sentinel  from  the  bold  headlands 
of  Cape  Ann  to  the  terraced  rocks  of  Pemaquid! 

Closest  at  hand  would  be  the  low-lying  hills,  the 
sandy  beaches  flanked  by  glistening  sand  dunes  and 
the  salt  marshes  which  give  so  rare  an  idyllic  beauty  to 
the  New  England  coast  in  the  neighborhood  of  Ips- 
wich, Newburyport  and  Hampton.  To  sail  in  and 
out  among  the  islands  of  this  marshland  upon  the 
blue  reaches  of  placid  water,  prosaically  called  inlets 
but  better  deserving  the  name  of  giant  sapphires,  en- 
circling lowlands  and  hills  in  jeweled  girdles,  is  an 
experience  not  easily  to  be  forgotten.  The  delicate 
coloring  of  the  marsh  grass,  the  gracious  outlines  of 
the  bare  hills,  the  snowy  gleams  of  the  sand  dunes,  the 
soft  radiancy  of  the  atmosphere  seem  to  lift  one  into  a 
world  of  mirage.  Nothing  is  real;  but  who  would 
leave  this  mystical  world  of  unreality!  We  murmur, 
like  the  lotos-eaters:  We  have  come  "unto  a  land" 
where  it  is  "always  afternoon";  let  us  "return 


no  more." 


The  wonderful  glamor  of  this  shore,  with  its  ac- 
companying inland  scenes,  our  poet-magician  pre- 
serves in  one  of  his  sweeping  views  from  his  pinnacle 
of  magic  vision,  thus: 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"I  see,  far  southward,  this  quiet  day, 
The  hills  of  Newbury  rolling  away, 
With  the  many  tints  of  the  season  gay, 
Dreamily  blending  in  autumn  mist 
Crimson  and  gold  and  amethyst. 
Long  and  low,  with  dwarf  trees  crowned, 
Plum  Island  lies,  like  a  whale  aground, 
A  stone's  toss  over  the  narrow  sound. 
Inland  as  far  as  the  eye  can  go, 
The  hills  curve  round  like  a  bended  bow ; 
A  silver  arrow  from  out  them  sprung, 
I  see  the  shine  of  the  Quasycung ; 
And,  round  and  round,  over  valley  and  hill, 
Old  roads  winding  as  old  roads  will, 
Here  to  a  ferry,  and  there  to  a  mill; 
And  glimpses  of  chimneys  and  gabled  eaves, 
Through  green  elm  arches  and  maple  leaves — 
Old  homesteads  sacred  to  all  that  can 
Gladden  or  sadden  the  heart  of  a  man 
Over  whose  thresholds  of  oak  and  stone 
Life  and  death  have  come  and  gone ! 
There  pictured  tiles  in  the  fireplace  show, 
Great  beams  sag  from  the  ceiling  low, 
The  dresser  glitters  with  polished  wares, 
The  long  clock  ticks  on  the  polished  stairs, 
And  the  low,  broad  chimney  shows  the  crack 
By  the  earthquake  made  a  century  back. 
Up  from  their  midst  springs  the  village  spire, 
With  the  crest  of  its  cock  in  the  sun  afire; 
Beyond  are  orchards  and  planting  lands, 
And  great  salt  marshes  and  glimmering  sands ; 
And,  where  north  ancj  south  the  coast-lines  run, 
The  blink  of  the  sea  in  breeze  and  sun." 


8          THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Of  course,  there  are  hilltops,  both  at  Haverhill  and 
Amesbury,  where  wonderful  views  are  to  be  had,  and 
we  may  climb  them  and  behold  the  views  and  humbly 
wish  we  might  see  all  the  poet  sees. 

But  even  Whittier  could  not  see  the  whole  of  New 
England  to  his  entire  satisfaction  from  his  pinnacle 
of  magic  vision.  Like  any  ordinary  mortal,  he  de- 
scends, perhaps  to  wander  along  the  river  path — a 
lovely  walk,  sometimes  past  banks  so  steep  there  is 
hardly  room  for  it  to  hold  its  own  between  the  bluff 
and  the  water,  and  again  past  little  vales  nestling  be- 
tween the  ridges.  At  every  turn  he  sees  a  fresh  pic- 
ture. "On  the  river's  farther  side,"  he  beholds  "the 
hilltops  glorified,"  and  now  the  river  rolling  dark 
"through  willowy  vistas,"  or  again  the  hills  swing 
open  to  the  light.  "Through  their  green  gates  the 
sunshine  showed,  a  long  slant  splendor  downward 
flowed."  At  another  time  he  follows  the  river  path 
in  his  last  autumn  walk,  when  "The  silver  birch  its 
buds  of  purple  shows,  and  scarlet  berries  tell  where 
blossomed  the  sweet  wild-rose." 

Whittier  loved  the  Merrimac  as  Longfellow  loved 
the  Charles  or  Emerson  the  Musketaquid ;  and  in  his 
care-taking  manner  he  has  left  no  aspect  untouched 
of  this  typical  New  England  river,  with  its  arms  rest- 
ing upon  the  shoulders  of  the  sea. 

The  Merrimac  rises  in  the  hills  of  New  Hampshire 
and  finally  winds  its  way  to  the  sea  through  north- 
eastern Massachusetts.  Before  civilization  had  set  its 
fat,  pursy  finger  upon  it,  it  flowed  by  forests  and 
wooded  hills,  where  giant  oaks  and  pines  communed 
together  in  solemn  conclave.  So  many  plunges  did 
the  river  make  in  its  course  that  the  Indians  of  the 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND          9 

north  called  it  the  Merrimack,  or  place  of  strong  cur- 
rents. In  those  far-distant  times  it  was  the  haunt  of 
several  varieties  of  fish.  Even  after  Haverhill  was  a 
settled  fact,  East  Haverhill  was  known  as  Shad 
Parish,  and  shad  was  actually  used  for  manure.  Stur- 
geon were  so  abundant  that  the  southern  Indians 
called  the  river  Monomack,  or  the  river  of  sturgeons; 
and  to  the  salmon  and  alewives  Haverhill  owed  one  of 
her  most  important  early  industries.  Salmon  were  so 
much  a  glut  in  the  market  that  it  was  often  stipulated 
in  the  indentures  of  apprentices  that  they  should  not 
be  forced  to  eat  salmon  more  than  six  times  a  week. 
Where  are  they  now?  Mostly  fled  before  the  march 
of  improvement,  for  the  Merrimac  has  become  one  of 
the  most  noted  water-powers  in  the  world.  Her  falls 
have  been  dammed  to  turn  countless  mill-wheels,  and 
only  flying  fish  could  now  get  up  the  stream  from  the 
sea  to  feed  and  breed.  Efforts  were  made  for  some 
time  to  keep  a  fishway  open,  but  I  believe  the  fish  are 
now  few  and  of  a  very  poor  quality. 

The  part  of  the  Merrimac  most  familiar  to  Whit- 
tier  flowed  through  the  county  of  Essex  from  Haver- 
hill to  the  sea.  It  probably  had  much  the  same  aspect 
in  his  day  that  it  has  now,  for  the  march  of  improve- 
ment was  well  under  way,  as  we  may  know  by  his  own 
frequent  references  to  the  disturbing  machinery  of  the 
mills.  The  border  line  of  Massachusetts  is  only  three 
miles  north  of  the  river,  and  along  this  part  of  its 
course  the  boundary  line  follows  all  the  river's  turn- 
ings. Haverhill  and  Amesbury  are  both  on  the  north 
bank  of  the  river,  separated  by  Merrimac,  formerly  a 
part  of  Amesbury. 

The  house  in  which  Whittier  was  born  is  in  East 


10        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Haverhill,  and  is  just  nine  miles  from  his  home  in 
Amesbury.  One  more  township  beyond  Amesbury— 
Salisbury — and  the  sea  is  reached.  On  these  banks 
Whittier  dwelt  during  the  whole  of  his  life,  in  a  region 
of  such  loveliness  that  more  than  one  celebrated  voice 
has  been  raised  in  its  praise.  Even  the  pursy  finger 
of  civilization  could  not  spoil  it.  It  might  blot  out  the 
forests  and  dam  the  river,  but  it  could  not  drain  the 
lakes;  and  where  there  once  were  forests,  there  are 
now  the  scarcely  less  beautiful  tinted  fields  of  culti- 
vation, or  rolling  green  pastures.  A  prose  description 
of  the  scenery  written  by  Whittier  in  a  review  of  a 
book  by  the  Rev.  P.  S.  Boyd,  "Up  and  Down  the 
Merrimac,"  and  reprinted  for  the  first  time  by  Mr. 
Samuel  T.  Pickard  in  his  little  book,  "Whittier- 
Land,"  would  serve  almost  as  well  to-day  as  it  did 
when  it  was  written. 

"The  scenery  of  the  lower  valley  of  the  Merrimac 
is  not  bold  nor  remarkably  picturesque,  but  there  is  a 
great  charm  in  the  panorama  of  its  soft  green  inter- 
vales: its  white  steeples  rising  over  thick  clusters  of 
elms  and  maples,  its  neat  villages  on  the  slopes  of 
gracefully  rounded  hills,  dark  belts  of  woodland  and 
blossoming  or  fruited  orchards,  which  would  almost 
justify  the  words  of  one  who  formerly  sojourned  on 
its  banks,  that  the  Merrimac  is  the  fairest  river  this 
side  of  Paradise." 

We  must  turn  to  Whittier's  poetry,  however,  if  we 
would  be  thoroughly  initiated  into  the  charm  which 
attaches  itself  to  this  river.  In  "The  Bridal  of  Penna- 
cook,"  we  see  the  wild  and  free  Merrimac  of  pre- 
civilized  days,  before  the  dull  jar  of  the  loom  and 
the  wheel,  the  gliding  of  shuttles,  the  ringing  of 


I 

1  o 


^  I 

a! 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        11 

steel  had  made  its  banks  more  or  less  hideous  with 
noise. 

"O  child  of  that  white-crested  mountain  whose  springs 
Gush  forth  in  the  shade  of  the  cliff-eagle's  wings, 
Down  whose  slopes  to  the  lowlands  thy  wild  waters  shine, 
Leaping  gray   walls   of  rock,   flashing  through   the   dwarf 
pine; 

"From  that  cloud-contained  cradle  so  cold  and  so  lone, 
From  the  arms  of  that  wintry-locked  mother  of  stone, 
By  hills  hung  with  forests,  through  vales  wide  and  free, 
Thy  mountain-born  brightness  glanced  down  to  the  sea! 

"No  bridge  arched  thy  waters  save  that  where  the  trees 
Stretched  their  long  arms  above  thee  and  kissed  in  the  breeze ; 
No  sound  save  the  lapse  of  the  waves  on  the  shores, 
The  plunging  of  otters,  the  light  dip  of  oars." 

A  view  of  the  Merrimac  of  a  later  day,  as  well  as 
one  of  Haverhill  when  it  was  called  Pentucket,  is 
given  in  the  poet's  narrative  of  the  attack  upon  the 
town  in  1708.  Then  it  was  a  frontier  village,  with  but 
thirty  houses.  At  the  dead  of  night  it  was  surprised 
by  a  combined  force  of  French  and  Indians  under  the 
command  of  two  Frenchmen,  De  Chaillons  and  Hertel 
de  Rouville.  The  sunset  picture  of  the  town  and  its 
surroundings  upon  this  fatal  night  is  charming. 

"How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 
The  mellow  light  of  sunset  shone! 
Each  small,  bright  lake,  whose  waters  still 
Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill, 
Reflected  from  its  waveless  breast 


12        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

The  beauty  of  a  cloudless  west, 
Glorious  as  if  a  glimpse  were  given 
Within  the  western  gates  of  heaven, 
Left  by  the  spirit  of  the  star 
Of  sunset's  holy  hour  ajar! 

"Beside  the  river's  tranquil  flood 
The  dark  and  low-walled  dwellings  stood, 
Where  many  a  rood  of  open  land 
Stretched  up  and  down  on  either  hand, 
With  corn-leaves  waving  freshly  green 
The  thick  and  blackened  stumps  between. 
Behind,  unbroken,  deep  and  dread, 
The  wild,  untraveled  forest  spread, 
Back  to  those  mountains  white  and  cold, 
Of  which  the  Indian  trapper  told, 
Upon  whose  summits  never  yet 
Was  mortal  foot  in  safety  set." 

The  poem  affords  another  glimpse  of  the  Merrimac 
by  moonlight. 

"Hours  passed  away.     By  moonlight  sped 
The  Merrimac  along  his  bed. 
Bathed  in  the  pallid  lustre,  stood 
Dark  cottage-wall  and  rock  and  wood, 
Silent,  beneath  that  tranquil  beam, 
As  the  hushed  grouping  of  a  dream." 

There  are  many  other  lovely  sketches  of  the  Merri- 
mac like  this,  for  example,  from  "Mabel  Martin" : 

"And  through  the  shadow  looking  west, 
You  see  the  wavering  river  flow 
Along  a  vale,  that  frr  below, 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        13 

"Holds  to  the  sun,  the  sheltering  hills 
And  glimmering  water-line  between, 
Broad  fields  of  corn  and  meadows  green, 

"And  fruit-bent  orchards  grouped  around 
The  low  brown  roofs   and  painted  eaves, 
And  chimney-tops  half  hid  in  leaves. 

"No  warmer  valley  hides  behind 
Yon  wind-scourged  sand  dunes  cold  and  bleak ; 
No  fairer  river  comes  to  seek 

"The  wave-sung  welcome  of  the  sea, 
Or  mark  the  northmost  border  line 
Of  sun-loved  growths   of  nut  and  vine." 

The  Merrimac,  winding  its  way  through  Whittier's 
narrative  or  legendary  poems,  much  as  it  does  through 
its  own  hills  and  forests  and  towns,  finally  emerges  in 
the  full  light  of  its  importance  in  a  poem  all  to  itself, 
in  which  the  poet  does  not  hesitate  to  place  it  in  the 
top-notch  of  his  estimation  among  rivers. 

"I  have  stood 

Where  Hudson  rolled  his  lordly  flood; 
Seen  sunrise  rest  and  sunset  fade 
Along  his  frowning  Palisade ; 
Looked  down  the  Appalachian  peak 
On  Juniata's  silver  streak; 
Have  seen  along  his  valley  gleam 
The  Mohawk's  softly  winding  stream; 
The  level  light  of  sunset  shine 
Through  broad  Potomac's  hem  of  pine; 
And  autumn's  rainbow-tinted  banner 
Hang  lightly  o'er  the  Susquehanna; 


14        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Yet  wheresoe'er  his  step  might  be, 
Thy  wandering  child  looked  back  to  thee! 
Heard  in  his  dream  thy  river's  sound 
Of  murmuring  on  its  pebbly  bound, 
The  unforgotten  swell  and  roar 
Of  waves  on  thy  familiar  shore." 

Occasionally  Whittier  goes  off  on  a  summer  outing. 
The  beloved  valley  of  the  Merrimac  is  left  behind. 
He  climbs  the  hills  and  hears  through  Sandwich  notch 
the  west  wind  sing: 

"Good  morrow  to  the  cotter ; 
And  once  again  Chocorua's  horn 
Of  shadow  pierced  the  water. 

"Above  his  broad  lake  Ossipee, 
Once  more  the  sunshine  wearing, 
Stooped,  tracing  on  that  silver  shield 
His  grim  armorial  bearing." 

Or  he  pushes  his  way  northwards  into  the  very  heart 
of  the  White  Hills: 

"Silent  with  wonder,  where  the  mountain  wall 
Is  piled  to  heaven ;  and,  through  the  narrow  rift 
Of  the  vast  rocks,  against  whose  rugged  feet 
Beats  the  head  torrent  with  perpetual  roar, 
Where  noonday  is  as  twilight,  and  the  wind 
Comes  burdened  with  the  everlasting  moan 
Of  forests  and  of  far-off  waterfalls, 
We  had  looked  upward  where  the  summer  sky, 
Tasselled  with  clouds  light-woven  by  the  sun, 
Sprung  its  blue  arch  above  the  abutting  crags 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        15 

O'er-roofing  the  vast  portal  of  the  land 
Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains.     We  had  passed 
The  high  source  of  the  Saco ;  and  bewildered 
In  the  dwarf  spruce-belts  of  the  Crystal  Hills 
Had  heard  above  us,  like  a  voice  in  the  cloud, 
The  horn  of  Fabyan  sounding;  and  atop 
Of  old  Agioochook  had  seen  the  mountains 
Piled  to  the  northward,  shagged  with  wood,  and  thick 
As  meadow  mole-hills, — the  far  sea  of  Casco, 
A  white  gleam  on  the  horizon  of  the  east; 
Fair  lakes,  embosomed  in  the  woods  and  hills; 
Moosehillock's  mountain  range,  and  Kearsarge 
Lifting  his  granite  forehead  to  the  sun." 

Or  he  journeys  down  to  the  sea,  which  he  has  beheld 
from  afar: 

"The  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright 

Where,  miles  away, 
Lies  stretching  to  my  dazzled  sight 
A  luminous  belt,  a  misty  light, 

Beyond  the  dark  pine  bluffs  and  wastes  of  sandy  gray. 

"The  tremulous  shadow  of  the  Sea! 

Against  its  ground 
Of  silvery  light,  rock,  hill,  and  tree, 
Still  as  a  picture,  clear  and  free, 

With  varying  outline  mark  the  coast  for  miles  around. 

"On — on — we  tread  with  loose-flung  rein 

Our  seaward  way, 

Through  dark-green  fields  and  blossoming  grain, 
Where  the  wild  brier-rose  skirts  the  lane, 

And  bends  above  our  heads  the  flowering  locust  spray. 


16        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"Ha !  like  a  kind  hand  on  my  brow 

Comes  this  fresh  breeze, 
Cooling  its  dull  and  feverish  glow, 
While  through  my  being  seems  to  flow 

The  breath  of  a  new  life,  the  healing  of  the  seas !" 

The  closer  Whittier  approaches  to  nature,  the  more 
personal  becomes  his  attitude  toward  it.  To  the  pic- 
ture is  added  spiritual  content.  It  means  something 
more  to  him  than  simple  beauty ;  but  this  meaning  has 
not  the  pantheistic  touch  such  as  Bryant  would  give. 
Still  less  is  there  any  hint  of  a  dynamic  evolutionary 
force  in  nature  such  as  Emerson  puts  there.  Nature 
is  beautiful  and  a  balm  to  the  tired  spirit  of  man ;  but, 
though  a  creation  of  God,  Whittier  does  not  in  any 
sense  identify  it  with  the  divine.  Its  beauty  is  to 
Whittier  no  more  than  an  assurance  that — 


"He  whose  presence  fills 
With  light  the  spaces  of  these  hills 
No  evil  to  His  creatures  wills, 

"The  simple  faith  remains,  that  He 
Will  do,  whatever  that  may  be, 
The  best  alike  for  man  and  tree." 


These  lines  are  from  a  poem  in  which  Whittier  ex- 
presses with  his  utmost  felicity  this  personal  touch 
with  nature,  "Summer  by  the  Lakeside."  He  has 
roamed  far  afield  for  him,  this  time  to  the  shores  of 
Lake  Winnepesaukee  and  is  well-nigh  intoxicated 
with  the  charm  of  this  beautiful  region. 


O 

s 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        17 

"White  clouds,  whose  shadows  haunt  the  deep, 
Light  mists,  whose  soft  embraces  keep 
The  sunshine  on  the  hills  asleep ! 

"O  isles  of  calm !    O  dark,  still  wood ! 
And  stiller  skies  that  overbrood 
Your  rest  with  deeper  quietude ! 

"O  shapes  and  hues,  dim  beckoning,  through 
Yon  mountain  gaps,  my  longing  view 
Beyond  the  purple  and  the  blue. 

"To  stiller  sea  and  greener  land, 
And  softer  lights  and  airs  more  bland, 
And  skies, — the  hollow  of  God's  hand! 

"Transfused  through  you,  O  mountain  friends ! 
With  mine  your  solemn  spirit  blends 
And  life  no  more  hath  separate  ends. 

**I  read  each  misty  mountain  sign, 
I  know  the  voice  of  wave  and  pine, 
And  I  am  yours  and  ye  are  mine. 

"Life's  burdens  fall,  its  discords  cease, 
I  lapse  into  the  glad  release 
Of  Nature's  own  exceeding  peace. 

"O  welcome  calm  of  heart  and  mind! 
As  falls  yon  fir-tree's  loosened  rind 
To  leave  a  tenderer  growth  behind, 

"So  fall  the  weary  years  away; 
A  child  again,  my  head  I  lay 
Upon  the  lap  of  this  sweet  day." 


18        THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

It  has  been  said  that  Whittier  was  color-blind,  and 
a  tale  is  told  of  how  he  went  to  town  to  buy  a  nice, 
quiet  grey  carpet,  and  when  the  carpet  he  had  chosen 
came  home  it  was  a  bright  scarlet.  If  he  had  any  such 
defect  it  does  not  prevent  him  from  showing  a  con- 
stant sense  of  light  and  shadow  and  of  color  in  his 
poems.  Open  almost  any  page  in  Whittier  and  on  it 
will  be  found  many  a  keen  observation  upon  the  colors 
to  be  seen  in  nature.  Take  a  few  at  random!  On  one 
page  I  find  "golden-sandaled"  for  the  sunlight,  "sil- 
vering bay,"  "purple  mountains,"  "purple  stains," 
"golden  lines,"  "old-time  green,"  "bridal  blush  of 
rose,"  "brown  leaves,"  "azure  bells,"  "amber  violet's 
leaves,"  "purple  aster,"  "greening  slopes."  Upon  an- 
other page  I  find  such  happy  phrases  as  "The  hoar 
plume  of  the  golden  rod,"  "azure-studded  juniper," 
referring  to  the  blue  berries  which  cluster  on  the  juni- 
per in  late  summer  and  autumn;  "white  pagodas  of 
the  snow."  His  strong  consciousness  of  color  often 
comes  out  in  direct  allusion  to  his  enjoyment  of  it,  as 
in  these  lines : 

"Rich  gift  of  God !     A  year  of  time ! 

What  pomp  of  rise  and  shut  of  day, 
What  hues  wherewith  our.  Northern  clime 
Makes  autumn's  dropping  woodlands  gay! 

"I  know  not  how,  in  other  lands, 

The  changing  seasons  come  and  go; 
What  splendors  fall  on  Syrian  sands, 

What  purple  lights  on  Alpine  snow ! 
Nor  how  the  pomp  of  sunrise  waits 
On  Venice  at  her  watery  gates. 
A  dream  alone  to  me  is  Arno's  vale. 
And  the  Alhambra's  halls  are  but  a  traveller's  tale." 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        19 

After  browsing  in  Whittier  for  a  while  one  feels 
that  he  may  be  counted  upon  to  see  and  appreciate 
every  beautiful  aspect  of  nature.  We  find  reflected 
in  him  all  our  own  especial  loves.  If  we  grow  senti- 
mental over  trailing  arbutus,  as  most  of  us  do,  we  find 
him  ready  to  speak  our  speech  better  for  us.  If  sun- 
sets arouse  in  us  distracting  ecstasy,  let  us  learn  of 
him  what  ecstasy  may  be.  Or,  say  we  are  entranced 
with  the  beauty  of  an  early  frost  which  adds  its  last 
touch  of  radiance  to  the  fairyland  of  a  New  England 
autumn — a  fairyland  within  whose  realm  the  sombre 
firs  and  cedars  are  quite  taken  out  of  themselves  by 
the  levity  of  the  crimson  maples,  with  whom  they 
seem  to  dance  on  flaming  heaths  of  huckleberries  in 
an  atmosphere  made  radiant  by  golden  showers  from 
the  sky,  or  so  the  yellow  leaves  of  the  birches  seem  to 
be.  One  touch  is  to  be  added.  King  Frost  comes 
along  some  night  and  crowns  everything  in  sight  with 
delicate  silver  fretwork  or  clustering  diamonds. 

Whittier  has  seen  this,  too!  And  not  only  seen  it, 
but  he  knows  it  is  as  wonderful  a  sight  as  nature  has 
to  offer  in  her  picture  gallery. 

"This  f  oregleam  of  the  Holy  City 
Like  that  to  him  of  Patmos  given, 
The  white  bride  coming  down  from  heaven! 

"How  flash  the  ranked  and  mail-clad  alders 

Through  what  sharp-glancing  spears  of  reeds 
The  brook  its  muffled  water  leads ! 

"Yon  maple,  like  the  bush  of  Horeb, 
Burns  unconsumed :  a  white  cold  fire 
Rays  out  from  every  grassy  spire. 


20        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"Each  slender  rush  and  spike  of  mullein 
Low  laurel  shrub  and  drooping  fern, 
Transfigured,  blaze  where'er  I  turn. 

"How  yonder  Ethiopian  hemlock 

Crowned  with  his  glistening  circlet  stands  I 
What  jewels  light  his  swarthy  hands!" 

A  comparison  of  Whittier  and  Bryant  naturally 
suggests  itself  in  connection  with  Whittier's  nature- 
poetry.  Bryant  was  more  exclusively  a  nature-poet 
than  Whittier,  yet  he  is  not  nearly  so  keen  an  observer 
of  nature.  His  pantheistic  conception  of  nature 
made  his  perception  of  pictorial  values  oftentimes 
vague,  especially  in  his  earlier  poetry.  Unless  the 
poem  is  tagged  in  some  way  it  is  difficult  to  deter- 
mine whether  it  was  inspired  by  New  England  scenes 
or  by  those  of  New  York  State. 

There  seems  no  very  good  reason  why  this  should 
be  the  case,  for  he  was  born  and  spent  much  of  his 
time  later  in  life  in  a  region  lovely  enough  and  individ- 
ual enough  to  have  inspired  pictures  as  specific  in  de- 
tail as  those  given  us  by  Whittier. 

Cummington  is  a  tiny  town  among  the  hills  of  west- 
ern Massachusetts,  not  much  bigger  now  than  it 
was  over  a  hundred  years  ago,  when  Bryant  made  it 
illustrious  by  being  born  there,  and  still  unadorned  by 
a  railroad  station.  How  little  things  have  progressed 
with  the  town  of  Cummington  is  rather  pathetically 
summed  up  in  the  address  of  welcome  given  by  one  of 
its  citizens  at  the  time  of  the  Bryant  Centennial  in 
1894: 

"The  welcome  that  Cummington  extends  to  you  to- 
day is  substantially  the  same  as  greeted  the  embryo 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        21 

poet  one  hundred  years  ago.  That  the  people  are  the 
same  in  kind  is  proven  by  the  fact  that  of  the  two  hun- 
dred voters  in  town  but  three  are  of  foreign  birth ;  the 
quality  may  have  deteriorated,  as  the  flower  of  our 
sons  and  daughters  have  gone  forth  to  enrich  other 
communities,  nearly  every  home  having  furnished  its 
full  quota.  There  are  but  few  of  us  left,  but  these  few 
are  ready  to  stand  up  and  be  counted.  Many  homes 
have  been  abandoned,  and  their  location  is  marked  by 
a  hollow  in  the  ground  where  once  was  a  cellar. 

"The  Westfield  flows  through  its  narrow  valley; 
the  little  villages  nestle  by  its  side  as  in  the  past;  the 
amphitheatre  of  hills  and  valleys  that  girt  the  eastern 
horizon  are  the  same  that  Bryant's  first  conscious 
vision  looked  upon;  the  little  brooks  still  murmur 
through  their  narrow  glens;  the  groves,  the  darker 
woods,  the  sunny  slopes  where  wildflowers  bloom,  all 
are  here  still  to  inspire  other  poets.  The  home  that 
sheltered  our  poet  from  early  infancy  to  manhood, 
the  home  to  which  he  turned  when  fortune  had  smiled 
and  the  frost  of  age  was  upon  hair  and  beard,  making 
of  it  a  fit  place  to  spend  a  short  season  each  year  to 
renew  his  acquaintance  with  nature  'through  her  vis- 
ible forms,'  free  from  the  cares  of  an  exacting  profes- 
sion— to  all  of  these  we  welcome  you.  Without  these 
nothing  we  could  say  or  do  would  be  worthy  of  a  mo- 
ment's consideration  by  you." 

The  charm  of  western  Massachusetts — Berkshire 
County  and  Hampshire  County  lying  next  toward  the 
east — in  which  is  situated  Cummington,  has  often 
been  sung  in  verse  and  described  in  prose.  It  is  a 
land  of  hill-ranges  stretching  in  every  direction  in 
sweeping,  wavelike  masses  that  go  on  and  on  into 


22        THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

mysterious  purple  distances.  Here  and  there  an  im- 
posing peak  stands  out  in  isolated  splendor,  such  as 
Graylock,  immortalized  by  Hawthorne  in  "Ethan 
Brand,"  and  by  his  fine  descriptions  of  it  in  his  diary. 
Other  peaks  which  tower  aloft  in  imposing  grandeur 
are  Tom,  Holyoke,  Metawampe,  Everett.  The  val- 
leys are  not  less  fascinating  than  the  heights.  One 
may  rest  his  eyes  upon  a  broad  and  level  sweep  of 
meadow-land  adorned  by  graceful  groups  of  trees,  or, 
like  the  poet,  he  may  pick  out  "a  single  tree,  of  many  a 
one"  that  lonely  stands  from  year  to  year  watching 
its  shadow  turn  round  at  its  feet.  He  may  look  in 
another  direction  and  lose  himself  in  the  depths  of  an 
impenetrable  forest;  and  how  shall  he  count  the  lakes 
and  ponds  that  sleep  and  dream  within  these  hilly 
cradles,  or  the  rivulets  which  meander  through  the 
glens,  or,  most  bewitching  of  all,  the  obstreperous 
brooks  that  tumble  down  their  pebbly  paths  with  in- 
toxicating wildness  and  freedom! 

We  are  told  by  Bryant's  biographer  that  he  and  his 
brother  as  boys  explored  every  corner  of  this  region, 
and  the  poet  himself  tells  us  how  great  was  his  fond- 
ness for  nature,  and  of  his  delight  in  "the  splendors 
of  a  winter  daybreak  over  the  wide  wastes  of  snow 
seen  from  our  windows,  the  glories  of  the  autumnal 
woods,  the  gloomy  approaches  of  the  thunder-storm 
and  its  departure  amid  sunshine  and  rainbows,  the 
return  of  spring  with  its  flowers  and  the  first  snow- 
fall of  winter." 

In  spite  of  this  fondness,  even  reverence  for  nature, 
which  comes  out  in  almost  every  line  of  his  poetry,  he 
has  written  only  two  poems  which  describe  with  any 
attention  to  details  the  scenery  peculiar  to  the  region, 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        23 

"Green  River"  and  "Monument  Mountain,"  in  the 
Berkshire  Hills. 

The  thickets  of  Green  River  were  among  his  favor- 
ite haunts,  and  of  this  river  he  has  given  one  charming 
picture,  which  was  written  during  his  residence  at 
Great  Barrington. 

"Pure  its  waters — its  shallows  are  bright 
With  colored  pebbles  and  sparkles  of  light, 
And  clear  the  depths  where  its  eddies  play, 
And  dimples  deepen  and  whirl  away, 
And  the  plane-tree's  speckled  arms  o'ershoot 
The  swifter  current  that  mines  its  root 
Through  whose  shifting  leaves,  as  you  walk  the  hill, 
The  quivering  glimmer  of  sun  and  rill 
With  a  sudden  flash  on  the  eye  is  thrown, 
Like  the  ray  that  streams  from  the  diamond-stone. 
Oh,  loveliest  there  the  spring  days  come, 
With  blossoms,  and  birds,  and  wild-bee's  hum ; 
And  flowers  of  summer  are  fairest  there, 
And  freshest  the  breath  of  the  summer  air; 
And  sweetest  the  golden  autumn  day 
In  silence  and  sunshine  glides  away." 

"Monument  Mountain"  opens  with  one  of  the  poet's 
usual  generalizing  descriptions,  but  his  vision  becomes 
centered  upon  the  mountain. 

"That  seems  a  fragment  of  some  mighty  wall, 
Built  by  the  hand  that  fashioned  the  old  world, 
To  separate  its  nations,  and  throw  down 
When  the  flood  drowned  them.     To  the  north  a  path 
Conducts  you  up  the  narrow  battlement. 
Steep  is  the  western  side,  shaggy  and  wild 
With  mossy  trees,  and  pinnacles  of  flint, 


24        THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

And  many  a  hanging  crag.     But,  to  the  east, 

Sheer  to  the  vale  go  down  the  bare  old  cliffs — 

Huge  pillars   that  in  the  middle  heaven  upbear 

Their  weather-beaten  capitals,  here  dark 

With  moss,  the  growth  of  centuries,  and  there 

Of  chalky  whiteness  where  the  thunderbolt 

Has  splintered  them.     It  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  stand  upon  the  beetling  verge  and  see 

Where  storm  and  lightning  from  that  huge  grey  wall 

Have  tumbled  down  vast  blocks,  and  at  the  base 

Dashed  them  in  fragments,  and  to  lay  thine  ear 

Over  the  dizzy  depth,  and  hear  the  sound 

Of  winds,  that  struggle  with  the  woods  below, 

Come  up  like  ocean  murmurs.     But  the  scene 

Is  lovely  round;  a  beautiful  river  there 

Wanders  amid  the  fresh  and  fertile  meads, 

The  paradise  he  made  unto  himself, 

Mining  the  soil  for  ages.     On  each  side 

The  fields  swell  upward  to  the  hills;  beyond, 

Above  the  hills,  in  the  blue  distance  rise 

The  mountain-columns  with  which  earth  props  heaven." 

This  is  a  graphic  description  of  the  scene,  but  is  not 
a  picture  in  the  same  sense  as  a  description  by  Whit- 
tier  is.  Whittier  saw  with  the  eyes  of  a  genuine 
painter.  Bryant's  were  the  eyes  of  a  literary  man  al- 
ways subject  to  interferences  from  his  ears  and  his 
thinking  powers. 

The  river-love  of  his  childhood  was  the  "Rivulet," 
which  in  prose  he  describes  as  the  "North  fork  of  the 
Westfield  River — a  shallow  stream  brawling  over  a 
bed  of  loose  stones  in  a  very  narrow  valley." 

In  his  poetry,  the  rivulet  is  described  in  such  gen- 
eral terms  that  it  could  easily  be  mistaken  for  any- 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        25 

body's  brook  in  almost  any  part  of  the  world.  Upon 
revisiting  his  childhood's  haunts,  the  descriptions  of 
the  scene  are  hardly  more  definite.  Except  that  he 
speaks  of  his  "native  hills,"  they  might  be  the  native 
hills  of  one  born  in  New  York  or  Pennsylvania.  It 
may  be  objected  that  the  landscapes  of  the  Middle 
States  and  New  England  actually  do  bear  striking 
resemblances  to  each  other.  But  no  one  of  attentive 
eye  can  pass  from  Pennsylvania  and  New  York  to 
Massachusetts,  New  Hampshire  and  Maine  without 
perceiving  how  distinctive  is  the  charm  of  each  of  these 
localities.  Bryant  did  not  have  in  a  marked  degree 
the  faculty  of  picking  out  just  those  features  in  a 
landscape  which  give  individuality. 

"I  stand  upon  my  native  hills  again,* 

Broad,  round,  and  green,  that  in  the  summer  sky 
With  garniture  of  waving  grass  and  grain, 

Orchards,  and  beechen  forests,  basking  lie, 
While  deep  the  sunless  glens  are  scooped  between, 
Where  brawl  o'er  shallow  beds  the  streams  unseen. 

**A  lisping  voice  and  glancing  eyes  are  near 

And  ever-restless  feet  of  one  who,  now, 
(Fathers  the  blossoms  of  her  fourth  bright  year; 

There  plays  a  gladness  o'er  her  fair  young  brow 
As  breaks  the  varied  scene  upon  her  sight, 
Upheaved  and  spread  in  verdure  and  in  light. 

"For  I  have  taught  her,  with  delighted  eye, 
To  gaze  upon  the  mountains, — to  behold, 

*By  permission  of  D.  Appleton  &  Co. 


26        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

With  deep  affection,  the  pure,  ample  sky 

And  clouds  along  its  blue  abysses  rolled, 
To  love  the  song  of  waters,  and  to  hear 
The  melody  of  winds  with  charmed  ear. 


"There,  have  I  'scaped  the  city's  stifling  heat, 
And,  where  the  season's  milder  fervors  beat, 

And  gales,  that  sweep  the  forest  borders,  bear 
The  song  of  bird  and  sound  of  running  stream, 
Am  come  awhile  to  wander  and  to  dream. 

"Ay,  flame  thy  fiercest,  sun!  thou  canst  not  wake, 
In  this  pure  air,  the  plague  that  walks  unseen. 
The  maize-leaf  and  the  maple-bough  but  take, 

From  thy  strong  heats,  a  deeper,  glossier  green. 
The  mountain  wind,  that  faints  not  in  thy  way, 
Sweeps  the  blue  streams  of  pestilence  away. 

"The  mountain  wind!    Most  spiritual  thing  of  all 

The  wide  earth  knows ;  when,  in  the  sultry  time, 
He  stoops  him  from  his  vast  cerulean  hall, 

He  seems  the  breath  of  a  celestial  clime ! 
As  if  from  heaven's  wide-open  gates  did  flow 
Health  and  refreshment  on  the  world  below." 


Besides  illustrating  how  much  less  individual  a  de- 
scription of  New  England  nature  this  is  than  anything 
in  Whittier,  it  also  indicates  the  directions  in  which 
Bryant  was  far  more  sensitive  than  Whittier.  To 
Bryant  nature  was  more  constantly  sentient  than  it 
was  to  Whittier.  He  frequently  attributes  feelings 
and  thoughts  to  the  various  objects  in  nature,  as  in  the 
following  dainty  little  poem: 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        27 

"Is  this  a  time  to  be  cloudy  and  sad, 

When  our  Mother  Nature  laughs  around; 
When  even  the  deep  blue  heavens  look  glad, 

And  gladness  breathes  from  the  blossoming  ground? 

"There  are  notes  of  joy  from  the  hang-bird  and  wren, 
And  the  gossip  of  the  swallows  through  all  the  sky; 
The  ground-squirrel  gayly  chirps  by  his  den, 
And  the  wilding  bee  hums  merrily  by. 

"The  clouds  are  at  play  in  the  azure  space 

And  their  shadows  at  play  on  the  bright-green  vale, 
And  here  they  stretch  to  the  frolic  chase, 
And  there  they  roll  on  the  easy  gale." 

This  feeling  of  the  sentiency  of  nature  gives  to  Bry- 
ant an  especial  consciousness  of  the  atmosphere  and 
its  effects.  Among  these  western  hills  the  winds  often 
hold  high  carnival,  and  to  their  movements,  from  the 
gentle  breeze  to  the  hurricane,  he  was  ever  attentive. 
Perhaps  allied  to  this  is  a  keen  sense  of  the  aspects 
of  the  different  seasons  shown  in  his  many  poems  on 
autumn,  spring  and  the  various  months.  Certainly, 
it  led  to  constant  observation  of  the  clouds,  and  thus 
from  the  sky  of  day  to  the  night  sky  with  its  infinite 
stars.  Naturally,  the  sense  of  an  indwelling  life  in 
nature  is  akin  to  the  pantheistic  conception  of  the 
divine  in  nature  expressed  in  such  a  passage  as  this 
from  "A  Forest  Hymn": 

"That  delicate  flower, 

With  scented  breath  and  look  so  like  a  smile, 
Seems  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould 
An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 
A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 
That  are  the  soul  of  this  great  universe." 


28        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

In  reading  Bryant  one  gains  a  constantly  increas- 
ing perception  of  his  attitude  of  reverence  toward  na- 
ture, reaching  often  its  loftiest  expression  in  his  songs 
of  the  heavens  rather  than  in  his  songs  of  earth.  With 
earth  he  frequently  connects  the  idea  of  the  ephem- 
eralness  of  life,  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  one  critic  of 
Bryant — Barrett  Wendell — declares  that  the  title  for 
his  whole  volume  might  be  "Glimpses  of  the  Grave." 
A  more  careful  examination  of  Bryant,  however,  will 
show  that  his  glimpses  as  he  goes  on  in  life  are  more 
frequently  of  heaven  than  of  the  grave.  Could  there 
be  a  more  joyous  song  than  "The  Song  of  the  Stars"! 

"When  the  radiant  morn  of  creation  broke,* 
And  the  world  in  the  smile  of  God  awoke, 
And  the  empty  realms  of  darkness  and  death 
Were  moved  through  their  depths  by  his  mighty  breath, 
And  orbs  of  beauty  and  spheres  of  flame 
From  the  void  abyss  by  myriads  came — 
In  the  joy  of  youth  as  they  darted  away, 
Through  the  widening  wastes  of  space  to  play, 
Their  silver  voices  in  chorus  rang, 
And  this  was  the  song  the  bright  ones  sang: 

"  'Away,  away,  through  the  wide,  wide  sky, 
The  fair  blue  fields  that  before  us  lie — 
Each  sun  with  the  worlds  that  round  him  roll, 
Each  planet,  poised  on  her  turning  pole; 
With  her  isles  of  green,  and  her  clouds  of  white, 
And  her  waters  that  lie  like  fluid  light. 

"  'For  the  source  of  glory  uncovers  his  face, 
And  the  brightness  o'erflows  unbounded  space, 

*By  permission  of  D.  Appleton  &  Co. 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        29 

And  we  drink  as  we  go  to  the  luminous  tides 
In  our  ruddy  air  and  our  blooming  sides : 
Lo,  yonder  the  living  splendors  play ; 
Away,  on  our  joyous  path,  away! 

"  'Look,  look,  through  our  glittering  ranks  afar, 
In  the  infinite  azure,  star  after  star, 
How  they  brighten  and  bloom  as  they  swiftly  pass ! 
How  the  verdure  runs  o'er  each  rolling  mass! 
And  the  path  of  the  gentle  winds  is  seen, 
Where  the  small  waves  dance,  and  the  young  woods  lean. 

"  'And  see,  where  the  brighter  day-beams  pour, 
How  the  rainbows  hang  in  the  sunny  shower ; 
And  the  morn  and  eve,  with  their  pomp  of  hues, 
Shift  o'er  the  bright  planets  and  shed  their  dews ; 
And  'twixt  them  both,  o'er  the  teeming  ground, 
With  her  shadowy  cone  the  night  goes  round! 

"  'Away,  away !  in  our  blossoming  bowers, 

In  the  soft  airs  wrapping  these  spheres  of  ours, 
In  the  seas  and  fountains  that  shine  with  morn 
See,  Love  is  brooding,  and  Life  is  born, 
And  breathing  myriads  are  breaking  from  night, 
To  rejoice,  like  us,  in  motion  and  light.' 

"Glide  on  in  your  beauty,  ye  youthful  spheres, 
To  weave  the  dance  that  measures  the  years ; 
Glide  on,  in  the  glory  and  gladness  sent 
To  the  furthest  wall  of  the  firmament — 
The  boundless  visible  smile  of  Him 
To  the  veil  of  whose  brow  your  lamps  are  dim." 

Bryant's  vagueness  is  equally  noticeable  in  regard 
$o  flowers.    His  biographer  tells  us  he  was  a  passion- 


30        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

ate  botanist,  and  he  says  himself  in  one  of  his  poems, 
"The  Mystery  of  the  Flowers" : 


"Not  idly  do  I  stray 
At  prime  where  far  the  mountain  ridges  run, 

And  note  along  my  way, 
Each  flower  that  opens  in  the  early  sun ; 
Or  gather  blossoms  by  the  valley's  spring, 
When  the  sun  sets  and  dancing  insects  sing. 

"Each  has  her  moral  rede, 
Each  of  the  gentle  family  of  flowers, 

And  I  with  patient  heed 
Oft  spell  their  lessons  in  my  graver  hours ; 
The  faintest  streak  that  on  a  petal  lies 
May  speak  instruction  to  initiate  eyes." 

Among  all  the  flowers  he  loves  he  has  dedicated  but 
two  poems  to  individual  flowers,  "The  Yellow  Violet" 
and  "The  Fringed  Gentian." 

In  "The  Death  of  the  Flowers"  there  is  a  short  list 
of  flowers,  only  one  of  which  has  even  an  adjective  to 
its  name,  "the  yellow  sunflower."  They  are  all 
grouped  together  in  his  mind,  and  of  them  in  mass 
he  writes  most  tenderly  and  beautifully: 

"The  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that  lately  sprang  and 

stood 
In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sisterhood." 

It  is  nature  in  the  abstract  rather  than  nature  in 
the  particular  which  appeals  to  Bryant.  Between  his 
and  Whittier's  perception  of  it  there  is  a  difference 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        31 

much  like  that  which  exists  between  the  philosopher's 
love  of  humanity  and  the  dramatist's  love  of  it. 

The  attraction  the  sky  had,  with  its  clouds  by  day 
and  its  stars  by  night,  for  Bryant  would  naturally  lead 
him  to  the  observation  of  birds.  His  celebrated  "Lines 
to  a  Waterfowl"  will  occur  to  every  reader  as  an  il- 
lustration of  this.  The  story  of  how  it  came  to  be 
written  is  familiar,  but  it  will  bear  repeating  because 
it  is  so  apt  an  illustration  of  the  early  sky-gazing 
habits  of  the  young  poet.  On  December  fifteenth, 
1817,  he  had  walked  from  Cummington  to  Plainfield, 
a  town  seven  miles  off,  on  the  opposite  hillside.  "As 
he  walked  up  the  hills,"  says  Godwin,  in  his  Life, 
"very  forlorn  and  desolate  indeed,  not  knowing  what 
was  to  become  of  him  in  the  big  world,  which  grew 
bigger  as  he  ascended,  and  yet  darker  with  the  com- 
ing on  of  night.  The  sun  had  already  set,  leaving 
behind  it  one  of  those  brilliant  seas  of  chrysolite  and 
opal  which  often  flood  the  New  England  skies.  While 
he  was  looking  upon  the  rosy  splendor  with  rapt  ad- 
miration, a  solitary  bird  made  wing  along  the  illumi- 
nated horizon.  He  watched  the  lone  wanderer  until 
it  was  lost  in  the  distance,  asking  himself  whither  it 
had  come  and  to  what  far  home  it  was  flying.  When 
he  went  to  the  house  where  he  was  to  stop  for  the 
night,  his  mind  was  still  full  of  what  he  had  seen  and 
felt,  and  he  wrote  those  lines,  as  imperishable  as  our 
language,  'To  a  Waterfowl.' ' 

These  same  lines  written  to-day  would  cause  little 
comment,  but  they  came  at  a  time  when  the  editor  of 
a  monthly  sincerely  expressed  the  doubt  as  to  whether 
such  a  poem  as  "Thanatopsis"  could  be  written  on  this 
side  of  the  Atlantic.  From  their  early  fame  as  the 


32        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

first  original  blossoms  of  American  poetic  genius  these 
first  important  poems  of  Bryant  can  no  more  escape 
than  could  "In  Memoriam"  escape  its  fame  as  the 
great  dirge  of  the  Victorian  era.  Give  a  poem  a  good 
name  and  it  will  stick  to  it,  is  just  as  true  as  the  re- 
verse is  true  of  a  dog, — and  there  is  eternal  justice 
in  this,  for  surely  in  whatever  arouses  critical  enthusi- 
asm lurks  an  element  of  permanency.  After  this 
early  beginning,  the  peaceful  fowler  hunting  birds  in 
Bryant  will  be  disappointed  not  to  find  more  of  them. 
"The  Return  of  the  Birds"  and  "The  Song  Sparrow" 
were  both  written  at  the  time  of  the  civil  war,  and  re- 
flect the  tenor  of  that  struggle.  The  birds  return 
North  early,  because  they  have  been  driven  by  fear 
from  the  field  of  war.  The  poem  shows  great  tender- 
ness toward  these  feathered  wanderers,  but  mentions 
only  two  of  them  by  name : 

"I  hear,  from  many  a  little  throat, 

A  warble  interrupted  long ; 
I  hear  the  robin's  flute-like  note, 
The  bluebird's  slenderer  song 

"Brown  meadows  and  the  russet  hill, 

Not  yet  the  haunt  of  grazing  herds, 
And  thickets  by  the  glimmering  rill, 
Are  all  alive  with  birds." 

And  "birds"  they  continue  to  be  through  all  the 
remaining  stanzas,  for  whose  benefit  he  hopes — 

"Our  generals  and  their  strong-armed  men 
May  lay  their  weapons  by. 

"Then  may  ye  warble,  unafraid." 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        33 

More  birds  are  named  in  "The  Song  Sparrow." 
This  familiar  little  bird's  cheery  ways  are  described 
with  an  amount  of  detail  rarely  bestowed  by  Bryant 
upon  any  single  object.  The  poem  appeared  in  Wil- 
liams3 Magazine  of  1861,  and  has  not  been  reprinted 
until  lately  (1908)  in  the  "Roslyn"  edition  of  his 
poems.  It  is  a  graceful  poem,  well  worthy  of  recol- 
lection among  Bryant's  best  pieces. 

"Bird  of  the  door-side,  warbling  clear,* 
In  the  sprouting  or  fading  year ! 
Well  art  thou  named  from  thy  own  sweet  lay, 
Piped  from  paling  or  naked  spray, 
As  the  smile  of  the  sun  breaks  through 
Chill  gray  clouds  that  curtain  the  blue. 

"Even  when  February  bleak 
Smites  with  his  sleet  the  traveller's  cheek, 
While  the  air  has  no  touch  of  spring, 
Bird  of  promise !  we  hear  thee  sing. 
Long  ere  the  first  blossom  wakes, 
Long  ere  the  earliest  leaf-bud  breaks. 

"April  passes  and  May  steals  by; 
June  leads  in  the  sultry  July ; 
Sweet  are  the  wood-notes,  loud  and  sweet, 
Poured  from  the  robin's  and  hang-bird's  seat; 
Thou,  as  the  green  months  glide  away, 
Singest  with  them  as  gayly  as  they. 

"August  comes,  and  the  melon  and  maize 
Bask  and  swell  in  a  fiery  blaze; 
Swallows  gather,  and,  southward-bound, 
Wheel,  like  a  whirl-blast,  round  and  round; 

*By  permission  of  D.  Appleton  &  Co. 


34        THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Thrush  and  robin  their  songs  forget ; 
Thou  art  cheerfully  warbling  yet. 

"Later  still,  when  the  sumach  spray 
Reddens  to  crimson,  day  by  day ; 
When  in  the  orchard,  one  by  one, 
Apples  drop  in  the  ripening  sun. 
They  who  pile  them  beneath  the  trees 
Hear  thy  lay  in  the  autumn  breeze. 

"Comes  November,  sullen  and  grim, 
Spangling  with  frost  the  rivulet's  brim, 
Harsh,  hoarse  winds  from  the  woodlands  tear 
Each  brown  leaf  that  is  clinging  there. 
Still  thou  singest,  amid  the  blast, 
'Soon  is  the  dreariest  season  past.' 

"Only  when  Christmas  snow-storms  make 
Smooth  white  levels  of  river  and  lake, 
Sifting  the  light  flakes  all  day  long, 
Only  then  do  we  miss  thy  song ; 
Sure  to  hear  it  again  when  soon 
Climbs  the  sun  to  a  higher  noon. 

"Now,  when  tidings  that  make  men  pale — 
Tidings  of  slaughter — load  the  gale ; 
While,  from  the  distant  camp,  there  come 
Boom  of  cannon  and  roll  of  drum, 
Still  thou  singest,  beside  my  door, 
'Soon  is  the  stormiest  season  o'er.' 

"Ever  thus  sing  cheerfully  on, 
Bird  of  Hope !  as  in  ages  gone ; 
Sing  of  spring-time  and  summer-shades, 
Autumn's  pomp  when  the  summer  fades, 
Storms  that  fly  from  the  conquering  sun, 
Peace  by  enduring  valor  won." 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        35 

Unquestionably,  Bryant's  observation  of  nature 
gained  in  definiteness  in  his  later  poems,  but  these  do 
not  have  to  do  with  New  England  scenery.  The  finest 
of  these  later  poems  of  scenery  is  "The  Prairies."  The 
contrast  between  them  and  his  "native  hills"  was  so 
great  that  their  every  characteristic  seems  to  have  been 
emblazoned  upon  his  mind.  The  result  is  a  gorgeous 
picture  at  the  opening  of  the  poem,  reproducing  the 
aspects  of  nature  peculiar  to  the  region  as  distinctly 
and  minutely  as  Whittier's  pictures  put  before  us  the 
landscapes  peculiar  to  New  England. 

Though  it  gives  a  bit  out  of  the  West,  I  quote  these 
opening  lines  in  order  to  emphasize  the  point  which 
has  been  made : 

"These  are  the  gardens  of  the  Desert,  these 
The  unshorn  fields,  boundless  and  beautiful, 
For  which  the  speech  of  England  has  no  name- — 
The  Prairies.     I  behold  them  for  the  first, 
And  my  heart  swells,  while  the  dilated  sight 
Takes  in  the  encircling  vastness.     Lo!  they  stretch, 
In  airy  undulations,  far  away, 
As  if  the  ocean,  in  his  gentlest  swell, 
Stood  still,  with  all  his  rounded  billows  fixed, 
And  motionless  forever. — Motionless? — 
No — they  are  all  unchained  again.     The  clouds 
Sweep  over  with  their  shadows,  and,  beneath, 
The  surface  rolls  and  fluctuates  to  the  eye; 
Dark  hollows  seem  to  glide  along  and  chase 
The  sunny  ridges.     Breezes  of  the  South! 
Who  toss  the  golden  and  the  flame-like  flowers, 
And  pass  the  prairie-hawk  that,  poised  on  high, 
Flaps  his  broad  wings,  yet  moves  not — ye  have  played 
Among  the  palms  of  Mexico  and  vines 
Of  Texas,  and  have  crisped  the  limpid  brooks 


36        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

That  from  the  fountains  of  Sonora  glide 

Into  the  calm  Pacific — have  ye  fanned 

A  nobler  or  a  lovelier  scene  than  this? 

Man  hath  no  power  in  all  this  glorious  work: 

The  hand  that  built  the  firmament  hath  heaved 

And  smoothed  these  verdant  swells,  and  sown  their  slopes 

With  herbage,  planted  them  with  island  groves, 

And  hedged  them  round  with  forests.     Fitting  floor 

For  this  magnificent  temple  of  the  sky — 

With  flowers  whose  glory  and  whose  multitude 

Rival  the  constellations !    The  great  heavens 

Seem  to  stoop  down  upon  the  scene  in  love, — 

A  nearer  vault,  and  of  a  tenderer  blue, 

Than  that  which  bends  above  our  eastern  hills." 

Less  picturesque  than  the  scenes  which  inspired  the 
nature  poetry  of  Whittier  and  Bryant,  the  Charles 
River,  on  its  broad  and  flowing  way  to  the  ocean,  be- 
tween Cambridge  and  Boston,  was  in  their  earlier 
verse  like  a  tenth  muse  to  two  of  the  poets,  living  upon 
its  shores,  Longfellow  and  Lowell.  And  even  Holmes, 
only  semi-occasionally  a  nature  poet,  has  put  into 
verse  a  scene  very  characteristic  of  the  Charles  as 
viewed  from  the  back  windows  of  his  Beacon  Street 
house.  It  is  a  description  of  the  flocks  of  birds,  ducks 
or  gulls  which  one  may  often  see  in  long  white  rows 
sitting  upon  the  ice  in  winter  or  paddling  in  the  water 
in  summer.  The  writer  is  at  this  moment  looking  out 
upon  the  same  scene  from  a  spot  almost  directly  op- 
posite the  Holmes  residence  on  Beacon  Street.  The 
setting  sun's  light  is  tinting  the  ice  of  the  almost 
solidly  frozen  river  with  rose-colored  and  opalescent 
hues,  and  far  down  the  stream  sit  the  same  rows  of 
white  gulls  holding  their  immemorial  conclaves.  Dr. 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        37 

Holmes  had  watched  them  so  often  that  he  had  come 
to  feel  a  sort  of  possession  in  them,  and  calls  the  poem 
in  which  he  describes  them,  "My  Aviary." 

"Through  my  north  window,  in  the  wintry  weather, — - 

My  airy  oriel  on  the  river  shore, — 
I  watch  the  sea-fowl  as  they  flock  together 

Where  late  the  boatman  flashed  his  dripping  oar. 

"The  gull,  high  floating,  like  a  sloop  unladen, 

Lets  the  loose  water  waft  him  as  it  will ; 
The  duck,  round-breasted  as  a  rustic  maiden, 

Paddles  and  plunges,  busy,  busy  still. 

"I  see  the  solemn  gulls  in  council  sitting, 

On  some  broad  ice-floe,  pondering  long  and  late, 

While  overhead  the  home-bound  ducks  are  flitting, 
And  leave  the  tardy  conclave  in  debate. 

"Those  weighty  questions  in  their  breasts  revolving 
Whose  deeper  meaning  science  never  learns, 

Till,  at  some  reverend  elder's  look  dissolving, 
The  speechless  senate  silently  adjourns. 

"But  when  along  the  waves  the  shrill  northeaster 

Shrieks  through  the  laboring  coaster's  shrouds  'Beware!' 

The  pale  bird,  kindling  like  a  Christmas  f  caster 
When  some  wild  chorus  shakes  the  vinous  air, 

"Flaps  from  the  leaden  wave  in  fierce  rejoicing, 

Feels  heaven's  dumb  lightning  thrill  his  torpid  nerves, 

Now  on  the  blast  his  whistling  plumage  poising, 
Now  wheeling,  whirling  in  fantastic  curves." 

Holmes,  whose  poetic  moods  were  ever  in  dan- 
ger of  turning  somersaults  into  the  humorous,  and 


38        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

from  the  humorous  into  the  didactic,  follows  this  really 
fine  description  with  stanzas  to  prove  the  worthless- 
ness  of  the  birds  from  the  sportsman's  point  of  view, 
and  these  by  a  sympathetic  outbreak  for  a  supposable 
gull  or  duck  brought  down  by  a  marksman's  gun. 

Another  poem  suggestive  of  this  poet's  environ- 
ment on  Beacon  Street  is  the  wholly  pleasing  one, 
"Spring  Has  Come,"  which  has  the  inscription,  ffln- 
tra  Muros"  A  walk  down  Beacon  Street  and  through 
the  Public  Garden  on  a  bright  spring  morning  ought 
to  have  been,  if  it  was  not,  its  inspiration.  Some 
morning  when  spring,  between  much  coquetting  of 
warm  smiles  and  chilly  tears,  has  at  last  taken  the 
whole  city  into  her  confidence.  Every  dooryard  on 
Beacon  Street  is  in  bloom.  Snowdrops,  and  crocuses 
and  hyacinths!  We  look  up  and  even  the  houses  are 
putting  forth  flowers.  Parlor  windows,  and  many  lit- 
tle glass  nooks  above  the  doorways,  have  become  flower 
beds,  from  which  cowslips  and  jonquils  and  narcissus 
and  hosts  of  other  blossoms  fling  their  beauty  into  the 
hearts  of  the  passers-by.  But  the  Garden!  flaming 
with  reds  and  yellows  and  pinks ;  tulip-bed  after  tulip- 
bed  ablaze  in  the  sunshine.  The  very  people  seem  to 
have  turned  into  tulips,  and  go  walking  about  in  pink 
and  yellow  atmospheres.  All  sorts  of  people  are  there, 
beaming  like  angels  in  an  earthly  paradise.  Talk 
about  mere  beauty  having  no  moral  influence!  One 
needs  only  to  see  the  happy  faces  of  the  spring  crowd 
in  the  Garden  to  be  convinced  there  is  not  a  soul  who 
gazes  upon  the  glory  of  the  tulips  in  the  sunshine  but 
is  the  better  for  it.  Some  of  the  faces  may  not  be 
very  beautiful,  but  all  have  taken  on  an  illuminating 
tenderness  of  expression.  Everybody  tries  to  fur- 


TULIPS  IN  THE  PUBLIC  GARDEN,  BOSTON 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        39 

bish  up  his  appearance  when  spring  comes.  Here  is 
a  woman  who  struts  about  as  if  she  were  a  tree  clothed 
in  fresh  green  leaves,  simply  because  she  is  able  to  go 
without  the  shabby  coat  she  has  been  obliged  to  wear 
for  the  last  six  months.  To  be  sure,  it  is  a  negative 
sort  of  attempt  to  appear  fresh  and  vie  with  the  tulips ; 
but  there  is  a  pathos  about  such  attempts  to  deck  her- 
self in  harmony  with  spring  which  gives  birth  to  a 
beauty  deeper  perhaps  than  one  merely  pleasing  to 
the  eye.  There,  for  example,  is  a  little  tot  in  a  charm- 
ing spring  rig  made  out  of  all  the  pieces  which  her 
fond  mother  had  in  her  possession.  The  skirt  is  very 
light  brown  of  one  kind  of  material,  the  sleeves  are 
very  dark  brown  of  another  kind  of  material,  and  the 
yoke  is  of  an  indeterminate  brown  of  still  another  ma- 
terial. Regarded  from  the  point  of  view  of  fashion, 
it  is  no  doubt  a  horrible  botch  of  a  little  coat;  but  as 
the  child  gambols  about  happily  in  the  sunshine,  she 
looks  like  a  dear  little  soft  brown  butterfly,  with  flut- 
tering dark  wings,  and  she  has,  no  doubt,  more  the 
spirit  of  spring  than  yonder  dainty  little  aristocrat 
in  stiff  white  pique  and  pink  ribbons,  and  a  hat  so 
weighed  down  with  feathers  that  her  delicate  little 
head  wobbles  on  its  slender  stalk. 

Out  on  the  sidewalks  there  are  no  tulips  nor  cro- 
cuses, but  there  is  a  constant  procession  of  human 
flower-beds.  With  a  self-sacrifice  greatly  to  be  com- 
mended women  grow  more  content  each  spring  com- 
pletely to  lose  their  identity  in  their  hats.  If  one  were 
to  view  one  hat  in  relation  to  one  woman,  pessimistic 
thoughts  as  to  the  sanity  of  the  average  female  mind 
might  arise.  But  when  one  walks  along  the  street, 
beholding  long  vistas  of  hats  with  nodding  scarlet 


40       THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

poppies,  and  pink  roses  and  aspiring  morning-glories, 
that  look  as  if  they  were  trying  to  scale  the  heights  of 
heaven,  one  is  obliged  to  admit  that  the  total  effect  is 
as  gay  and  jolly  as  possible,  and  to  thank  unselfish 
woman  for  so  nobly  converting  herself  into  mere  soil 
for  artificial  flowers  to  grow  upon. 

The  poem  in  question  is  from  the  "Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast  Table." 


"The  sunbeams,  lost  for  half  a  year, 

Slant  through  my  pane  their  morning  rays; 
For  dry  northwesters  cold  and  clear, 
The  east  blows  in  its  thin  blue  haze. 

"And  first  the  snowdrop's  bells  are  seen, 

Then  close  against  the  sheltering  wall 
The  tulip's  horn  of  dusky  green, 
The  peony's  dark  unfolding  ball. 

"The  golden-chaliced  crocus  burns ; 

The  long  narcissus-blades  appear ; 
The  cone-beaked  hyacinth  returns 
To  light  her  blue-flamed  chandelier. 

"The  willow's  whistling  lashes,  wrung 
By  the  wild  winds  of  gusty  March, 
With  sallow  leaflets  lightly  strung, 
Are  swaying  by  the  tufted  larch. 

"The  elms  have  robed  their  slender  spray 

With  full-blown  flower  and  embryo  leaf; 
Wide  o'er  the  clasping  arch  of  day 
Soars  like  a  cloud  their  hoary  chief. 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        41 

"See  the  proud  tulip's  flaunting  cup, 

That  flames  in  glory  for  an  hour, — 
Behold  it  withering, — then  look  up, — 
How  meek  the  forest  monarch's  flower! 

"When  wake  the  violets, — winter  dies ; 

When  sprout  the  elm-buds,  Spring  is  near; 
When  lilacs  blossom,  summer  cries, 
'Bud,  little  roses !   Spring  is  here !' 

"The  windows  blush  with  fresh  bouquets, 

Cut  with  their  Maydew  on  the  lips ; 
The  radish  all  its  bloom  displays, 
Pink  as  Aurora's  finger-tips. 

"Nor  less  the  flood  of  light  that  showers 
In  beauty's  changed  corolla-shades — 
The  walks  are  gay  as  bridal  bowers 
With  rows  of  many-petalled  maids." 

The  homes  of  Longfellow  and  Lowell  were  both  in 
Cambridge,  standing  somewhat  back  from  the  Charles, 
but  not  so  far  back  that  the  river  was  not  a  constant 
presence  in  their  consciousness.  Some  of  Longfel- 
low's most  dainty  fancies  are  woven  about  this  river, 
which  he  delighted  to  view  from  the  bridge  as  he 
walked  to  Boston,  or  to  watch  in  all  its  moods  from 
his  study-window,  as  it  glimmered  between  the  lofty 
elms,  a  conspicuous  feature  at  that  time  about  his 
home,  as  about  that  of  Lowell's,  "Elmwood."  His 
earliest  poems,  written  long  before  the  Craigie  House 
came  into  his  possession,  when,  as  a  young  professor 
at  Harvard,  he  lodged  there  with  the  unique  Mrs. 
Craigie,  are  redolent  of  the  pervasive  charm  exerted 
by  the  Charles  and  its  quiet  scenery. *— 

*See  the  author's  "Longfellow's  Country." 


42        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"So  blue  yon  winding  river  flows, 
It  seems  an  outlet  from  the  sky." 

In  his  poem  "To  the  River  Charles,"  is  a  concen- 
trated expression  of  his  feelings  in  relation  to  the 
river.  They  grew  out  not  only  of  its  direct  influence 
upon  him,  but  out  of  its  association  in  his  mind  with 
three  cherished  friends,  Charles  Sumner,  Charles  Fol- 
som  and  Charles  Amory.  The  art  of  the  poem  is  not 
great,  but  it  has  its  value  as  a  revelation  of  the  for- 
mative influence  of  this  river  upon  Longfellow's 
genius. 

"River!  that  in  silence  windest 

Through  the  meadows  bright  and  free 
Till  at  length  thy  rest  thou  findest 
In  the  bosom  of  the  sea ! 

"Four  long  years  of  mingled  feeling, 

Half  in  rest  and  half  in  strife, 
I  have  seen  thy  waters  stealing 
Onward,  like  the  stream  of  life. 

"Thou  has  taught  me,  Silent  River ! 

Many  a  lesson  deep  and  long; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver ; 
I  can  give  thee  but  a  song. 

"Oft  in  sadness  and  in  illness, 

I  have  watched  thy  current  glide, 
Till  the  beauty  of  its  stillness 
Overflowed  me  like  a  tide. 

"And  in  better  hours  and  brighter, 

When  I  saw  thy  waters  gleam, 
I  have  felt  my  heart  beat  lighter, 
And  leap  onward  with  thy  stream. 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        43 

"Not  for  this  alone  I  love  thee, 

Nor  because  thy  waves  of  blue 
From  celestial  seas  above  thee 
Take  their  own  celestial  hue. 

"Where  yon  shadowy  woodlands  hide  thee, 

And  thy  waters  disappear, 
Friends  I  love  have  dwelt  beside  thee, 
And  have  made  thy  margin  dear. 

"More  than  this — thy  name  reminds  me 

Of  three  friends  all  true  and  tried; 
And  that  name,  like  magic,  binds  me 
Closer,  closer  to  thy  side. 

"Friends  my  soul  with  joy  remembers  ! 

How  like  quivering  flames  they  start, 
When  I  fan  the  living  embers 
On  the  hearth-stone  of  my  heart ! 

"  'Tis  for  this,  thou  Silent  River ! 

That  my  spirit  leans  to  thee; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver, 
Take  this  idle  song  from  me." 

Lowell  was  born  at  Elmwood  and  through  the 
greater  part  of  his  life  it  was  his  home.  Though  the 
poems  are  not  many,  in  which  the  inspiration  of  the 
locality  is  prominent,  they  present  much  more  com- 
pletely the  varying  moods  of  the  place  than  Long- 
fellow's. This  is,  no  doubt,  partly  because  Lowell  had 
grown  up  with  the  scene,  and  partly  because  his  love 
of  nature  was  always  tinctured  with  thought  and 
knowledge.  Longfellow's  emotions  when  a  beautiful 
scene  was  in  question  were  simple,  almost  naive  at 


44        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

times,  and  his  thought  usually  takes  the  form  of  an 
appended  analogy,  reminding  one  of  the  morals  to 
".ZEsop's  Fables,"  which,  like  naughty  little  girls  and 
boys,  we  feel  an  inclination  to  skip. 

Lowell's  appreciation  of  nature,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  intensified  by  the  richness  of  his  mind,  his  emo- 
tions made  more  subtle,  and  from  the  mood  thus 
created  his  thought  bubbled  forth  with  "many  a  wind- 
ing bout,"  not  in  analogues  but  in  efflorescent  musings, 
often,  it  must  be  confessed,  less  convincing  as  art  than 
the  mood  with  which  he  starts — somewhat  as  if  from 
a  beautiful  flower  there  should  spring  the  rather  more 
prosaic  leaves  and  stems.  Take  "Under  the  Willows" 
as  an  illustration.  It  opens  with  a  glorious  outburst 
upon  June,  Lowell's  favorite  month,  for  "What  is 
so  rare  as  a  day  in  June?  Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect 
days."— 

"Frank-hearted  hostess  of  the  field  and  wood, 

Gypsy,  whose  roof  is  every  spreading  tree, 

June  is  the  pearl  of  our  New  England  year, 

Still  a  surprisal,  though  expected  long, 

Her  coming  startles.     Long  she  lies  in  wait, 

Makes  many  a  feint,  peeps  forth,  draws  coyly  back, 

Then,  from  some  southern  ambush  in  the  sky, 

With  one  great  rush  of  blossoms  storms  the  world. 

A  week  ago  the  sparrow  was  divine ; 

The  bluebird,  shifting  his  light  load  of  song 

From  post  to  post  along  the  cheerless  fence, 

Was  as  a  rhymer  ere  the  poet  came ; 

But  now,  oh  rapture!  sunshine  winged  and  voiced, 

Pipe  blown  through  by  the  warm  wild  breath  of  the  west, 

Shepherding  his  soft  droves  of  fleecy  cloud, 

Gladness  of  woods,  skies,  waters,  all  in  one. 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        45 

The  bobolink  has  come,  and,  like  the  soul 

Of  the  sweet  season  vocal  in  a  bird, 

Gurgles  in  ecstasy  we  know  not  what 

Save  June!    Dear  June!    Now  God  be  praised  for  June." 

The  opening  of  the  next  stanza  is  upon  a  decidedly 
lower  plane  of  inspiration : 

"May  is  a  pious  fraud  of  the  almanac." 

However,  once  let  ourselves  become  accustomed  to 
the  less  brilliant  key,  and  we  find  he  has  many  in- 
teresting things  to  say  as  he,  by  turns,  muses  or  ob- 
serves, while  every  now  and  then  there  is  a  flash  of 
imagination,  a  high  light  throwing  the  more  thought- 
ful portions  of  the  poem  into  proper  relief.  In  the 
end  we  suddenly  awake  to  the  fact  that  we  have 
gained  possession  of  a  very  definite  picture  of  "Elm- 
wood,"  interwoven  with  which  are  many  glimpses  of 
the  poet's  own  personality.  All  is  finally  rounded  out 
through  the  emotional  fire  of  the  last  stanza  which 
flames  up  to  join  that  of  the  first.  As  we  felt  in  that 
the  surpassing  beauty  of  June,  in  this  we  see  the  idyl- 
lic beauty  of  the  Charles. 

"So  mused  I  once  within  my  willow-tent 

One  brave  June  morning,  when  the  bluff  northwest, 

Thrusting  aside  a  dark  and  snuffling  day 

That  made  us  bitter  at  our  neighbors'  sins, 

Brimmed  the  great  cup  of  heaven  with  sparkling  cheer 

And  roared  a  lusty  stave;  the  sliding  Charles, 

Blue  toward  the  west,  and  bluer  and  more  blue, 

Living  and  lustrous  as  a  woman's  eyes 

Look  once  and  look  no  more,  with  southward  curve 

Ran  crinkling  sunniness,  like  Helen's  hair 


46        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Glimpsed  in  Elysium,  insubstantial  gold; 
From  blossom-clouded  orchards,  far  away 
The  bobolink  tinkled ;  the  deep  meadows  flowed 
With  multitudinous  pulse  of  light  and  shade 
Against  the  bases  of  the  southern  hills, 
While  here  and  there  a  drowsy  island  rick 
Slept  and  its  shadow  slept ;  the  wooden  bridge 
Thundered,  and  then  was  silent ;  on  the  roofs 
The  sun-warped  shingles  rippled  with  the  heat; 
Summer  on  field  and  hill,  in  heart  and  brain, 
All  life  washed  clean  in  this  high  tide  of  June." 

"An  Indian  Summer  Reverie"  is,  as  its  name  im- 
plies, another  poem  of  musings,  set  in  the  same  en- 
vironment. It  holds  more  closely,  however,  to  nature- 
descriptions.  "Elmwood"  and  its  surroundings  are 
minutely  brought  before  us  as  they  appear  to  the  poet 
in  the  autumn.  The  aspect  of  every  tree  is  pictured 
with  sympathetic  fidelity.  The  scene  as  it  appears  in 
autumn  calls  up  memories  of  its  winter  appearance. 
Then  the  poet  leaves  his  favorite  purlieus  and  strays 
through  the  village  of  Cambridge,  noting, 

"Beyond  the  hillock's  house-bespotted  swell, 

Where  Gothic  chapels  house  the  horse  and  chaise, 
Where  quiet  cits  in  Grecian  temples  dwell." 

Any  one  familiar  with  Cambridge  will  appreciate 
the  allusion  to  Grecian  temples.  Many  of  these  wood- 
en Parthenons  with  their  massive  Doric  pillars  are 
still  to  be  seen,  though  the  towering  apartment  house 
is  making  rapid  inroads.  Passing  along,  he  comes 
upon  the  blacksmith's  shop  with  its  chestnut  tree  made 
famous  by  Longfellow,  and  calls  to  mind, 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        47 

"How  many  times,  prouder  than  king  on  throne, 
Loosed  from  the  village  school-dame's  A's  and  B's, 

Panting  have  I  the  creaky  bellows  blown, 
And  watched  the  pent  volcano's  red  increase, 

Then  paused  to  see  the  ponderous  sledge  brought  down 

By  that  hard  arm  voluminous  and  brown, 

From  the  white  iron  swarm  its  golden  vanishing  bees." 

The  most  characteristic  bits  in  the  poem,  however, 
are  the  glimpses  of  the  Charles  and  its  meadows.  In 
the  midst  of  all  the  varied  and  brilliant  tints  of  au- 
tumn he  sees 

"Below,  the  Charles,  a  stripe  of  nether  sky, 

Now  hid  by  rounded  apple  trees  between, 
Whose  gaps  the  misplaced  sail  sweeps  bellying  by, 

Now  flickering  golden  through  a  woodland  screen, 
Then  spreading  out  at  his  next  turn,  beyond, 
A  silver  circle  like  an  inland  pond — 

Slips  seaward  silently  through  marshes  purple  and  green. 

"Dear  marshes !  vain  to  him  the  gift  of  sight 
Who  cannot  in  their  various  incomes  share, 

From  every  season  drawn,  of  shade  and  light, 
Who  sees  in  them  but  levels  brown  and  bare; 

Each  change  of  storm  or  sunshine  scatters  free 

On  them  its  largess  of  variety, 

For  Nature  with  cheap  means  still  works  her  wonders  rare. 

"In  spring  they  lie  one  broad  expanse  of  green, 

O'er  which  the  light  winds  run  with  glimmering  feet, 

Here,  yellower  stripes  track  out  the  creek  unseen, 
There,  darker  growths  o'er  hidden  ditches  meet ; 

And  purpler  stains  show  where  the  blossoms  crowd, 

As  if  the  silent  shadow  of  a  cloud 

Hung  there  becalmed,  with  the  next  breath  to  fleet. 


48        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"All  round,  upon  the  river's  slippery  edge, 

Witching  to  deeper  calm  the  drowsy  tide, 
Whispers  and  leans  the  breeze-entangled  sedge; 

Through  emerald  glooms  the  lingering  waters  slide, 
Or,  sometimes  wavering,  throw  back  the  sun, 
And  the  stiff  banks  in  eddies  melt  and  run 

Of  dimpling  light,  and  with  the  current  seem  to  glide." 

In  other  poems  Lowell  watches  a  storm  break  over 
the  Charles  valley,  or  he  feels  the  enchantment  of 
moonlight  upon  its  waters.  So  much,  indeed,  has  the 
Charles  impressed  itself  upon  his  consciousness  that 
one  wonders  whether  his  meditative  habit  of  mind  was 
not  largely  induced  by  his  familiarity  with  the  quiet 
flow  of  its  waters  and  the  low-lying,  broadly  sweep- 
ing vistas  of  its  shores. 

A  walk  from  the  Longfellow  house  to  the  Lowell 
house  to-day  is  full  of  interest. 

There  is  so  much  to  remind  one  of  Cambridge  as  it 
was  in  the  days  of  these  two  poets,  and  yet  how  all  is 
changed.  Here  and  there  an  old  Colonial  house  indi- 
cates how  little  it  was  then  built  up  and  how  beautiful 
must  have  been  the  vistas  up  and  across  the  Charles 
River.  Now,  Brattle  Street  is  lined  with  large  and 
comfortable  homes,  and  Mount  Auburn  Street  is 
thickly  built  up.  On  the  former  there  are  modern 
houses  which  suggest  the  more  ornate  Colonial  archi- 
tecture. Some  of  these  have  many  gables  and  over- 
hanging jetties.  The  side  streets  are  strewn,  for  the 
most  part,  with  small  and  unpretentious  houses,  while 
on  Mount  Auburn  Street  are  several  large  institu- 
tions, which,  with  the  business  buildings  on  the  river 
bank,  almost  completely  block  the  view  of  the  river. 
If  it  were  not  for  the  reservation  called  Longfellow 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        49 

Paris,  the  river  could  not  now  be  seen  from  Longfel- 
low's house  at  all.  Elmwood  retains  more  of  its  an- 
cient atmosphere,  because  it  is  opposite  the  entrance  to 
Mount  Auburn  Cemetery.  Little  of  the  Charles,  how- 
ever, can  be  seen,  but  there  is  a  glimpse  of  the  Har- 
vard Stadium  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  which, 
with  its  colosseum-like  appearance,  is  the  only  feature 
of  the  landscape  adding  an  attraction  not  possessed  by 
it  as  Lowell  saw  it.  In  spite  of  all  the  changes,  there 
still  broods  over  the  locality  of  Elmwood,  with  its  tall 
and  ancient  elms,  a  meditative  peacefulness  remindful 
of  the  poems  inspired  by  it. 

In  neither  Longfellow  nor  Lowell  does  the  moun- 
tain scenery  of  New  England  receive  much  attention. 
Longfellow  has  a  poem,  "Sunrise  on  the  Hills," 
which  shows  in  him  a  capability  for  loving  the  moun- 
tains, but  the  description  in  it  is  not  marked  by  any 
individuality.  When  he  traveled  inland  in  New 
Hampshire  or  Maine,  it  seems  not  to  have  been  the 
mountains  that  attracted  his  attention,  but  the  rivers. 
Of  two  of  these  he  gives  graphic  accounts, — Mad 
River,  an  obstreperous  stream  in  the  White  Moun- 
tains, and  Songo  River,  the  winding  stream  which 
connects  Long  Lake  with  Sebago  Lake.  Strange 
enough  this  river  is,  through  its  whole  course,  and 
stranger  still  the  appearance  of  its  outlet  into  Sebago 
Lake.  The  beach  looks  like  a  blasted  heath.  It  is 
covered  with  the  black  stumps  of  dead  trees,  killed 
by  the  constant  drifting  in  of  the  sand.  The  sand  bars 
at  this  point  make  navigation,  even  for  the  small  lake 
steamers,  treacherous.  To  expedite  matters  the  chan- 
nel is  marked  by  two  rows  of  young  birch  trees  with 
forlorn  leaves  clinging  to  their  branches.  They  have 


50        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

evidently  been  cut  off  at  the  roots  and  stuck  into  the 
sand,  forming  a  spectral  avenue  through  which  the 
noisy  little  steamer  puffs  to  its  landing  place  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Songo. 

"Nowhere  such  a  devious  stream, 
Save  in  fancy  or  in  dream, 
Winding  slow  through  bush  and  brake, 
Links  together  lake  and  lake. 

"Walled  with  woods  or  sandy  shelf, 
Ever  doubling  on  itself, 
Flows  the  stream  so  still  and  slow 
That  it  hardly  seems  to  flow." 

After  more  apt  description  the  poem  ends  with  its 
usual  moral, 

"Be  not  like  a  stream  that  brawls 
Loud  with  shallow  waterfalls, 
But  in  quiet  self-control 
Link  together  soul  and  soul." 

When  Lowell  went  to  the  mountains,  it  was  a  tree 
that  attracted  his  muse,  and  the  result  is  his  splendid 
poem,  "To  a  Pine  Tree"  on  Mount  Katahdin.  Lowell 
never  wrote  anything  more  instinct  with  power  than 
the  opening  lines  of  this  poem. 

"Far  up  on  Katahdin  thou  towerest, 

Purple-blue  with  the  distance  and  vast ; 
Like  a  cloud  o'er  the  lowlands  thou  lowerest, 
That  hangs  poised  on  a  lull  in  the  blast, 
To  its  fall  leaning  awful. 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        51 

"In  the  storm,  like  a  prophet  o'ermaddened, 
Thou  singest  and  tossest  thy  branches ; 
Thy  heart  with  the  terror  is  gladdened, 
Thou  forebodest  the  dread  avalanches, 
When  whole  mountains  sweep  valeward. 

"In  the  calm  thou  o'erstretchest  the  valleys 

With  thine  arms,  as  if  blessings  imploring, 
Like  an  old  king  led  forth  from  his  palace, 
When  his  people  to  battle  are  pouring 
From  the  city  beneath  him. 

"To  the  lumberer  asleep  'neath  thy  glooming, 

Thou  dost  sing  of  wild  billows  in  motion, 
Till  he  longs  to  be  swung  mid  their  booming 
In  the  tents  of  the  Arabs  of  ocean, 
Whose  finned  isles  are  their  cattle. 

"For  the  gale  snatches  thee  for  his  lyre, 

With  mad  hand  crashing  melody  frantic, 
While  he  pours  forth  his  mighty  desire 
To  leap  down  on  the  eager  Atlantic, 
Whose  arms  stretch  to  his  playmate." 

Lowell  had  a  special  fondness  for  trees,  to  which  he 
himself  bears  witness  in  a  passage  in  "Under  the 
Willows": 

"I  care  not  how  men  trace  their  ancestry, 
To  ape  or  Adam:    let  them  please  their  whim; 
But  I  in  June  am  midway  to  believe 
A  tree  among  my  far  progenitors, 
Such  sympathy  is  mine  for  all  the  race, 
Such  mutual  recognition  vaguely  sweet 
There  is  between  us.     Surely  there  are  times 
When  they  consent  to  own  me  of  their  kin, 


52        THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

And  condescend  to  me,  and  call  me  cousin, 
Murmuring  faint  lullabies  of  eldest  time, 
Forgotten,  and  yet  dumbly  felt  with  thrills 
Moving  the  lips,  though  fruitless  of  all  words. 
And  I  have  many  a  lifelong  leafy  friend, 
Never  estranged  nor  careful  of  my  soul, 
That  knows  I  hate  the  axe,  and  welcomes  me 
Within  his  tent  as  if  I  were  a  bird, 
Or  other  free  companion  of  the  earth." 

A  belief  in  descent  from  trees  was  widely  current 
among  savage  races.  The  feeling  of  kinship  with  trees 
thus  cropping  out  in  a  man  of  the  latest  of  days 
strikes  one  as  an  interesting  survival  of  the  actual  be- 
lief in  the  existence  of  sentient  life  in  trees,  and  other 
unconscious  matter,  a  belief  of  the  savage  which  ex- 
perimental science  is  to-day  bringing  within  the  range 
of  proof.  This  tree-love  of  Lowell's  frequently  finds 
expression  in  his  verse.  Side  by  side  with  the  power 
of  Katahdin's  pine  tree,  we  may  place  the  delicate 
charm  of  the  birch,  a  juxtaposition  often  seen  in 
Maine  woods. 

"While  all  the  forest,  witched  with  slumberous  moonshine, 

Holds  up  its  leaves  in  happy,  happy  stillness, 

Waiting  the  dew,  with  breath  and  pulse  suspended, 

I  hear  afar  thy  whispering,  gleamy  islands, 

And  track  thee  wakeful  still  amid  the  wide-hung  silence. 

"On  the  brink  of  some  wood-nestled  lakelet, 
Thy  foliage,  like  the  tresses  of  a  Dryad, 
Dripping  round  thy  slim  white  stem,  whose  shadow 
Slopes  quivering  down  the  water's  dusky  quiet, 
Thou  shrink'st  as  on  her  bath's  edge  would  some  startled 
Naiad." 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        53 

Holmes  had  a  summer  home  for  some  years  at 
Pittsfield  in  the  Berkshire  Hills  region.  He  speaks 
of  it  with  great  affection  in  his  letters  and  mentions 
it  in  "Elsie  Venner";  also  in  "The  Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast  Table,"-  "That  home  where  seven  blessed 
summers  were  passed,  which  stand  in  memory  like  the 
seven  golden  candlesticks  in  the  beatific  vision  of  the 
holy  dreamer."  But  he  has  written  no  poetry  of  the 
place  breathing  the  true  spirit  of  nature.  There  is 
nothing  to  show  but  two  or  three  bucolic  poems  for 
occasions,  like  "Lines  for  the  Berkshire  Jubilee,"  and 
"The  Ploughman,"  in  which  the  farming  industries 
of  the  plain  are  dwelt  upon  with  no  seeming  con- 
sciousness that  Graylock  or  Monument  Mountain  are 
anywhere  in  the  neighborhood.  In  "Lines  for  the 
Dedication  of  Pittsfield  Cemetery"  he  must,  however, 
be  credited  with  an  allusion  to  the  twin  giants  of  the 
north  looking  forth  upon  the  huge  shapes  that  crouch- 
ing at  their  knees, 

"Stretch  their  broad  shoulders,  rough  with  shaggy  trees." 

It  is  an  interesting  fact  that  childhood  environ- 
ment laid  its  special  mark  upon  each  of  the  poets  we 
have  been  considering.  Whittier's  finest  pictures 
were  inspired  by  the  scenery  in  the  midst  of  which 
he  was  born,  and  are  marked  by  variety  because  of 
the  fact  that  within  seeing  distance  of  the  hills  near 
his  home  were  visible  great  mountain  ranges,  peace- 
ful inland  villages,  and  a  coast  line  including  rocky 
headlands,  marshland  and  beach.  In  his  case,  as  in 
Lowell's,  the  impressions  were  reinforced  by  the  fact 
that  his  whole  life,  not  of  course  counting  occasional 


54        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

absences,  was  spent  in  the  same  locality.  Perhaps 
Whittier  mused  so  little  about  nature  because  there 
was  so  much  constantly  to  attract  his  outer  vision.  He 
had  no  time  to  think.  Lowell,  again,  in  his  nature 
poetry,  is  usually  inspired  by  the  scenes  among  which 
he  was  born  and  lived.  Scenes  far  from  being  as 
varied  as  those  which  Whittier's  baby  eyes  opened 
upon,  and  calculated,  therefore,  to  inspire  meditation 
by  their  very  sameness  and  peacefulness,  in  one  alive 
to  their  intrinsic  qualities. 

Bryant  and  Longfellow  did  not  remain  in  their 
childhood  environment,  yet  the  influence  of  that  en- 
vironment left  its  mark.  The  generalizing,  abstract, 
philosophical  attitude  toward  nature  which  Bryant 
seemed  to  imbibe  among  his  native  wind-swept  hills 
was,  in  spite  of  exceptions  already  referred  to,  a 
permanent  characteristic  of  his  verse  and  tended  to 
send  his  muse  flying  with  the  winds  and  up,  like 
Scipio  in  his  dream,  among  "the  stars  and  feathers  of 
the  night." 

Longfellow's  native  environment  was  the  sea.  He 
was  born  in  Portland,  within  sight  of  it,  and  his  youth 
was  spent  in  its  neighborhood,  and  it  is  in  his  poems 
of  the  sea  that  he  comes  nearest  to  the  beating  heart 
of  nature.  The  Charles  wound  itself  into  his  affec- 
tion, and  delightful  was  its  effect  upon  his  early  verse, 
but  the  sea  had  his  heart  from  the  first,  and  to  it  he 
ever  and  again  returns. 

Longfellow's  glimpses  of  the  sea  appear  often  in 
poems  not  primarily  nature  poems,  like  the  ballads, 
"The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,"  "Sir  Humphrey  Gil- 
bert," or  "The  Fire  of  Drift  Wood."  The  poem, 
"Palingenesis,"  and  three  sonnets  on  the  sea,  "The 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        55 

Sound  of  the  Sea,"  "A  Summer  Day  by  the  Sea," 
and  "The  Tides,"  especially  the  sonnets,  contain  his 
most  mature  thought  upon  the  sea.  In  the  sonnets, 
again,  the  merit  is  not  equal.  The  first  one  is  some- 
what overweighted  with  its  moral.  In  the  second, 
it  is  hard  to  forgive  the  line  about  the  street  lamps,  as 
well  as  the  trite  conclusion.  The  third  is,  however, 
quite  satisfactory.  There  are  no  lines  to  forgive,  and 
the  moral  is  emotionally  expressed,  not  preached. 

"The  sea  awoke  at  midnight  from  its  sleep, 
And  round  the  pebbly  beaches  far  and  wide 
I  heard  the  first  wave  of  the  rising  tide 
Rush  onward  with  uninterrupted  sweep, 
A  voice  out  of  the  silence  of  the  deep, 
A  sound  mysteriously  multiplied 
As  of  a  cataract  from  the  mountain's  side 
Or  roar  of  winds  upon  a  wooded  steep. 
So  comes  to  us  at  times  from  the  unknown 
And  inaccessible  solitudes  of  being, 

The  rushing  of  the  sea-tides  of  the  soul ; 
And  inspirations,  that  we  deem  our  own, 

Are  some  divine  foreshadowing  and  foreseeing 
Of  things  beyond  our  reason  and  control." 

"The  sun  is  set ;  and  in  his  latest  beams 

Yon  little  cloud  of  ashen  gray  and  gold, 
Slowly  upon  the  amber  air  unrolled, 

The  falling  mantle  of  the  prophet  seems. 

From  the  dim  headlands  many  a  lighthouse  gleams, 
The  street  lamps  of  the  ocean,  and  behold, 
O'erhead  the  banners  of  the  night  unfold ; 

The  day  hath  past  into  the  land  of  dreams. 

O  summer  day  beside  the  joyous  sea ! 
O  summer  day  so  wonderful  and  white, 


56        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

So  full  of  gladness  and  so  full  of  pain ! 
Forever  and  forever  shalt  thou  be 

To  some  the  gravestone  of  a  dead  delight, 
To  some  the  landmark  of  a  new  domain." 

"I  saw  the  long  line  of  the  vacant  shore, 

The  sea-weed  and  the  shells  upon  the  sand, 
And  the  brown  rocks  left  bare  on  every  hand, 
As  if  the  ebbing  tide  would  flow  no  more. 
Then  heard  I  more  distinctly  than  before, 

The  ocean  breathe  and  its  great  breast  expand, 
And  hurrying  came  on  the  defenseless  land 
The  insurgent  waters  with  tumultuous  roar. 
All  thought  and  feeling  and  desire,  I  said, 
Love,  laughter  and  the  exultant  joy  of  song 

Have  ebbed  from  me  forever !    Suddenly  o'er  me 
They  swept  again  from  their  deep  ocean  bed, 
And  in  a  tumult  of  delight,  and  strong 

As  youth,  and  beautiful  as  youth,  upbore  me." 

Longfellow's  feeling  for  nature  often  comes  out 
more  genuinely  in  his  letters  and  diary  than  it 
does  in  his  poetry.  The  exigencies  of  rhyme  and 
meter  seemed  in  a  way  to  handicap  the  spontaneity 
of  his  emotions.  He  was  not  certainly  a  keen  ob- 
server of  nature,  nor  did  he  have  such  enthusiasm  for 
accuracy  as  to  feel  the  necessity  of  always  seeing  the 
regions  he  was  intending  to  describe;  else  he  would 
not  so  joyously  have  welcomed  the  diorama  of  the 
Mississippi,  down  which  he  proceeded  to  make  his 
Acadians  sail.  In  fact,  he  devoutly  believed  that  an 
imaginative  picture  of  a  scene  in  nature  was  likely  to 
be  better,  because  more  idealized  than  a  picture  drawn 
from  the  life. 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        57 

All  of  New  England's  poets  have  been  aroused  at 
times  to  enthusiasm  for  the  sea.  I  have  already 
spoken  of  Whittier's  poem,  "Hampton  Beach."  It 
records  a  brief  day  by  the  sea. 

With  the  same  reverence  that  Emerson  felt  for  na- 
ture's relationing  of  her  beautiful  objects,  he  declares: 

"I  bear  with  me 

No  token  stone  nor  glittering  shell, 
But  long  and  oft  shall  memory  tell 
Of  this  brief  thoughtful  hour  of  musing  by  the  sea." 

Upon  this  same  beach  or  its  continuation,  Salisbury 
Beach,  the  tent  was  pitched  in  "The  Tent  on  the 
Beach."  At  the  time  this  poem  was  written  there  were 
no  cottages  on  the  beach,  and  those  who  wished  to 
enjoy  an  outing  by  the  sea  carried  thither  their  tents 
to  luxuriate  for  a  season  in  the  delights  of  living  heart 
to  heart  with  nature.  In  the  course  of  this  series  of 
poems  and  interludes  Whittier  gives  with  his  accus- 
tomed painter's  eye  numerous  lovely  pictures  of  the 
scenery  at  this  point. 

Hampton  Beach  is  the  continuation  of  Salisbury 
Beach,  beyond  the  line  dividing  Massachusetts  and 
New  Hampshire.  The  salt-meadows  of  Hampton 
mark  its  southern  boundary,  while  to  the  north  is  the 
grassy  bluff  of  Boar's  Head.  The  Hampton  River 
winds  through  the  marshes,  and  near  the  mouth  of 
this  river,  Whittier  himself  says  we  may  imagine  his 
tent  pitched.  In  the  opening  lines  of  the  poem  the 
scene  is  thus  described: 

"When  heats  as  of  a  tropic  clime 

Burned  all  our  inland  valleys  through, 


58        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Three  friends,  the  guests  of  summer  time, 

Pitched  their  white  tent  where  sea-winds  blew. 
Behind  them,  marshes,  seamed  and  crossed 
With  narrow  creeks  and  flower-embossed, 
Stretched  to  the  dark  oak  wood,  whose  leafy  arms 
Screened  from  the  stormy  east  the  pleasant  inland  farms. 

"At  full  of  tide  their  bolder  shore 

Of  sun-bleached  sand  the  waters  beat; 
At  ebb,  a  smooth  and  glistening  floor 

They  touched  with  light,  receding  feet. 
Northward  a  green  bluff  broke  the  chain 
Of  sand-hills ;  southward  stretched  a  plain 
Of  salt  grass,  with  a  river  winding  down, 
Sail-whitened,  and  beyond  the  steeples  of  the  town,— * 

"Whence  sometimes,  when  the  wind  was  light 

And  dull  the  thunder  of  the  beach, 
They  heard  the  bells  of  morn  and  night 

Swing,  miles  away,  their  silver  speech. 
Above  low  scarp  and  turf -grown  wall 
They  saw  the  fort-flag  rise  and  fall; 
And,  the  first  star  to  signal  twilight's  hour, 
The  lamp-fire  glimmer  down  from  the  tall  lighthouse  tower." 

Not  one  of  the  lovely  episodes  so  characteristic  of 
nature  by  the  sea  escapes  his  attention.  He  notes  the 
"clanging  sea-fowl"  as  they  come  and  go,  the  clouds 
with  "thunder  black,"  the  mists  which  crept  upward 
"chill  and  damp" ;  the  hunters,  after  the  sea-fowl,  and 
the  barefooted  girls  tripping  down  to  the  sea  to  bathe ; 
or  the  fishing  schooners,  outward  bound, 

"Their  low-bent  sails  in  tack  and  flaw 
Turned  white  or  dark  to  shade  and  sun." 


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THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        59 

He  sees  also  that  rarest  of  sights,  a  mirage.  Whit- 
tier  had  actually  seen  one  in  1861  at  Salisbury  Beach, 
when  on  a  visit  to  Mr.  Fletcher,  who  was  spending 
several  weeks  with  his  family  in  a  tent  on  the  beach. 
In  his  account  of  it,  Mr.  Fletcher  says : 

"It  had  been  a  peculiarly  beautiful  day,  and  as  the 
sun  began  to  decline,  the  calm  sea  was  lit  up  with  a 
dreamy  grandeur  wherein  there  seemed  a  mingling  of 
rose-tint  and  color  of  pearls.  All  at  once  we  noticed 
that  the  far-off  Isles  of  Shoals,  of  which  in  clear  days 
only  the  lighthouse  could  be  seen,  were  lifted  into  the 
air,  and  the  vessels  out  at  sea  were  seen  floating  in  the 
heavens.  Whittier  told  me  that  he  had  never  before 
witnessed  such  a  sight." 

With  poetic  license,  Whittier  represents  a  mirage 
as  a  frequent  occurrence — a  device,  if  it  were  intended 
as  such — which  makes  one  feel  as  if  the  tent  were 
in  some  strange  land,  afar  off,  where  things  happen 
differently  from  what  they  do  at  home. 

"Sometimes,  in  calms  of  closing  day, 
They  watched  the  spectral  mirage  play, 
Saw  low,  far  islands  looming  tall  and  nigh, 
And  ships,  with  upturned  keels,  sail  like  a  sea  the  sky." 

In  the  first  of  the  stories  in  "The  Tent  on  the 
Beach,"  "The  Wreck  of  Rivermouth,"  is  another  fine 
picture  of  this  part  of  the  shore. 

"Rivermouth  Rocks  are  fair  to  see, 
By  dawn  or  sunset  shone  across, 
When  the  ebb  of  the  sea  has  left  them  free 
To  dry  their  fringes  of  gold-green  moss : 


60        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

For  there  the  river  comes  winding  down, 
From  salt  sea-meadows  and  uplands  brown, 
And  waves  on  the  outer  rocks  afoam 
Shout  to  its  waters,  'Welcome  home!' 


"And  fair  are  the  sunny  isles  in  view 

East  of  the  grisly  Head  of  the  Boar, 
And  Agamenticus  lifts  its  blue 

Disk  of  a  cloud  the  woodlands  o'er; 
And  southerly,  when  the  tide  is  down 
Swift  white  sea-waves  and  sand-hills  brown, 
The  beach-birds  dance  and  the  gray  gulls  wheel 
Over  a  floor  of  burnished  steel." 

Bryant's  "Hymn  to  the  Sea,"  his  first  poem  of  the 
sea,  was  inspired  by  a  visit  to  Rockport  on  Cape 
Ann.  This  township  is  on  the  easternmost  shore  of 
the  cape,  where  the  Atlantic  sweeps  in  with  all  the 
majesty  of  its  two  thousand  miles  of  moving  waters. 
It  is  the  power  and  movement  of  the  sea  which  im- 
presses Bryant,  its  large,  general  aspects,  from  which 
his  thought  is  led  in  two  directions:  to  the  Divine 
power  behind  these  manifestations, — "The  sea  is 
mighty,  but  a  mightier  sways  his  restless  billows"; 
and  to  the  things  which  the  sea  accomplishes  with  its 
power. 

The  description  of  the  tempest,  or  rather  of  its 
effects  upon  an  armed  fleet,  is,  of  course,  purely 
imaginary.  Though  many  a  tempest  rages  upon 
this  dangerous  shore  where  stand  the  tall  warning 
twin  lights  of  Thacher's  Island,  no  such  wholesale 
destruction  of  a  fleet  could  have  been  witnessed  by 
him.  The  unreality  of  Bryant's  storm  comes  out  all 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        61 

the  more  clearly  by  comparing  it  with  the  storm 
described  in  "The  Wreck  of  Rivermouth." 


"They  saw  not  the  Shadow  that  walked  beside, 
They  heard  not  the  feet  with  silence  shod, 
But  thicker  and  thicker  a  hot  mist  grew, 
Shot  by  the  lightnings  through  and  through. 
And  muffled  growls  like  the  growls  of  a  beast, 
Ran  along  the  sky  from  west  to  east. 


"The  shoalmen  looked,  but  saw  alone 
Dark  films  of  rain-cloud  slantwise  blown, 
Wild  rocks  lit  up  by  the  lightning's  glare, 
The  strife  and  torment  of  sea  and  air." 

Bryant,  instead  of  watching  keenly  the  approach 
of  a  storm,  evidently  looked  upon  the  sea  and  remem- 
bered his  Shakespeare. 

"But  who  shall  bide  thy  tempest,  who  shall  face 
The  blast  that  wakes  the  fury  of  the  sea? 
O  God!  Thy  justice  makes  the  world  turn  pale, 
When  on  the  armed  fleet,  that  royally 
Bears  down  the  surges,  carrying  war  to  smite 
Some  city,  or  invade  some  thoughtless  realm, 
Descends  the  fierce  tornado.    The  vast  hulks 
Are  whirled  like  chaff  upon  the  waves ;  the  sails 
Fly,  rent  like  webs  of  gossamer ;  the  masts 
Are  snapped  asunder ;  downward  from  the  decks, 
Downward  are  slung  into  the  fathomless  gulf, 
Their  cruel  engines ;  and  their  hosts  arrayed 
In  trappings  of  the  battle-field,  are  whelmed 
By  whirlpools,  or  dashed  dead  upon  the  rocks." 


62        THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

In  another  poem  of  the  sea,  "The  Tides,"  Bryant 
shows  more  truly  a  sea-feeling. 

"But  ever  heaves  and  moans  the  restless  deep ; 

His  rising  tides  I  hear. 
Afar  I  see  the  glimmering  billows  leap ; 
I  see  them  breaking  near. 

"Each  wave  springs  upward,  climbing  toward  the  fair 

Pure  light  that  sits  on  high — 
Springs  eagerly,  and  faintly  sinks,  to  where 
The  mother  waters  lie." 

In  "Pictures  from  Appledore"  Lowell  has  pro- 
duced an  unemotional,  not  to  say  painstaking,  pan- 
orama of  the  scenes  which  may  be  viewed  landward 
from  this  island,  as  well  as  those  springing  from  the 
tumultuous  life  of  the  ocean  about  this  and  its  sister 
islands  of  the  Isles  of  Shoals.  These  islands  lie  about 
thirty  miles  out  from  Portsmouth,  and  are  not  by  any 
means  as  beautiful  as  many  islands  to  be  found  on  the 
New  England  coast.  Yet,  like  all  that  pertains  to  this 
coast,  they  have  their  charm,  and  even  their  moments 
of  terror  and  grandeur.  The  conscientiously  descrip- 
tive mood  induced  in  Lowell  by  Appledore  is,  no 
doubt,  a  result  of  the  mild  impression  made  upon  him 
when  first  landing  there  after  the  sail  out  from  Ports- 
mouth. But  just  look  about  a  little  and  there  is 
plenty  to  describe,  as  he  soon  found. 

"A  common  island,  you  will  say, 
But  stay  a  moment:   only  climb 
Up  to  the  highest  rock  of  the  isle, 
Stand  there  alone  for  a  little  while, 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        63 

And  with  gentle  approaches  it  grows  sublime, 

Dilating  slowly  as  you  win 

A  sense  from  the  silence  to  take  it  in." 

From  this  coign  of  vantage  he  can  see  all  the  emi- 
nences on  the  mainland  with  which  Whittier  makes 
us  familiar  at  nearer  range:  Ossipee,  Kearsarge, 
Agamenticus,  Agioochook. 

"But  mountains  make  not  all  the  shore 
The  mainland  shows  to  Appledore ; 
Eight  miles  the  heaving  water  spreads 
To  a  long  low  coast  with  beaches   and  heads 
That  run  through  unimagined  mazes, 
As   the   lights    and    shades    and    magical    hazes 
Put  them  away  or  bring  them  near 
Shimmering,  sketched  out  for  thirty  miles 
Between  two  capes  that  waver  like  threads, 
And  sink  in  the  ocean,  and  reappear, 
Crumbled  and  melted  to  little  isles, 
With  filmy  trees,  that  seem  the  mere 
Half-fancies  of  drowsy  atmosphere." 

In  the  course  of  his  description,  he  finally  asks  him- 
self the  question: 

i 
"How  looks  Appledore  in  a  storm? 

I  have  seen  it  when  its  crags  seemed  frantic, 

Butting  against  the  mad  Atlantic, 
When  surge  on  surge  would  heap  enorme, 

Cliffs  of  emerald  topped  with  snow, 

That  lifted  and  lifted  and  then  let  go 
A  great  white  avalanche  of  thunder, 

A  grinding,  blinding,  deafening  ire 
Monadnock  might  have  trembled  under ; 


6*       THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

And  the  island,  whose  rock-roots  pierce  below 
To  where  they  are  warmed  with  the  central  fire, 

You  could  feel  its  granite  fibres  racked 

As  it  seemed  to  plunge  with  a  shudder  and  thrill 
Right  at  the  breast  of  the  swooping  hill, 

And  to  rise  again  snorting  a  cataract 

Of  rage-froth  from  every  cranny  and  ledge, 

While  the  sea  drew  its  breath  in  hoarse  and  deep, 

And  the  next  vast  breaker  curled  its  edge, 
Gathering  itself  for  a  mightier  leap." 

The  poem,  like  the  island,  grows  upon  one  with 
closer  acquaintance,  but  like  the  island,  it  never 
arouses  more  than  a  species  of  contemplative  enthu- 
siasm. 

As  a  poet  of  the  sea,  Holmes  is  hardly  to  be  reck- 
oned with.  His  perverse  muse  does  not  lose  itself  in 
the  grandeur  of  its  movements  nor  the  tints  of  its 
lights  and  shadows.  It  inspires  in  him  a  vision  of 
"The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,"  a  dreadful  creature,  who 
interferes  with  everything  a  rational  being  wants  to 
do.  The  poem  has  its  fascination.  It  is  like  the 
troubled  dream  of  one  not  completely  under  the 
influence  of  an  ansesthetic,  and  certainly  suggests 
medicine  more  than  it  does  the  sea.  Holmes,  like  the 
others,  was  influenced  by  early  environment.  He 
lived  as  a  child  within  sight  of  Harvard  College,  and 
one  of  his  earliest  recollections  was  the  inspiring  scene, 
as  he  says,  which  he  witnessed  many  times  in  his 
early  years,  of  the  triumphal  entry  of  the  Governor 
attended  by  a  light-horse  troop  and  a  band  of  sturdy 
truckmen,  on  Commencement  Day.  Consequently  in 
later  years  nature  was  not  in  the  running  with  Har- 
vard. Poems  for  re-union  dinners  of  his  class  at 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        65 

Harvard,  together  with  poems  for  all  sorts  of  "tri- 
umphal" occasions,  make  up  the  majority  of  his  work. 
I  have  purposely  left  Emerson  aside,  because  in 
his  attitude  toward  nature  there  is  an  entirely  new 
note,  not  before  heard  in  American  poetry.  We  do 
not  go  to  Emerson  for  pictures  of  scenery,  though 
he,  too,  paints  them  with  a  sure  hand.  Nor  do  we  go 
in  a  pensive  mood  with  the  idea  that  nature  will  give 
birth  to  varied  musings,  as  it  does  in  Lowell;  nor  yet 
to  lose  ourselves  in  its  largeness  and  grandeur,  as  we 
may  in  Bryant.  We  go  to  Emerson  if  we  wish  to 
derive  power  and  inspiration  from  the  contemplation 
of  nature.  His  poet's  perception  of  beauty  has  been 
reinforced  by  the  philosopher's  or  the  scientist's  con- 
ception of  the  eternal  forces  in  nature  which  are  ever 
at  work  moulding  her  material  into  fresh  forms. 

"Onward  and  on,  the  eternal  Pan, 
Who  layeth  the  world's  incessant  plan, 
Halteth  never  in  one  shape, 
But  forever  doth  escape, 
Like  wave  or  flame,  into  new  forms 
Of  gem,  and  air,  of  plants,  and  worms." 

This  passage  is  the  keynote  to  Emerson's  treat- 
ment of  nature,  and  if  we  follow  closely  its  ramifi- 
cations we  are  led  into  many  mystical  and  transcen- 
dental paths.  In  his  poem  on  Concord's  sluggish 
river,  which  he  endears  to  us  by  its  Indian  name, 
Musketaquid,  he  describes  the  scene  as  he  knew  it — 

"Beneath  low  hills,  in  the  broad  interval 
Through  which  at  will  our  Indian  rivulet 
Winds  mindful  still  of  sannup  and  of  squaw, 


66        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Whose  pipe  and  arrow  oft  the  plow  unburies ; 

Here  in  pine  houses  built  of  new-fallen  trees, 

Supplanters  of  the  tribe,  the  farmers  dwell;  to  these  men 

The  landscape  is  an  armory  of  powers 

Which,  one  by  one,  they  know  to  draw  and  use." 

But  this  is  not  all.  Emerson  must  seek  the  heart 
of  nature's  mystery,  for  with  him  man  and  nature 
are  related  as  closely  as  nature  is  interrelated  with 
nature. 

"What  these  strong  masters  wrote  at  large  in  miles, 
I  followed  in  small  copy  in  my  acre; 
For  there's  noirood  has  not  a  star  above  it, 
The  cordial  quality  of  pear  or  plum 
Ascends  as  gladly  in  a  single  tree 
As  in  broad  orchards  resonant  with  bees ; 
And  every  atom  poises  for  itself, 
And  for  the  whole.     The  gentle  deities 
Showed  me  the  lore  of  colors  and  of  sounds, 
The  innumerable  tenements  of  beauty, 
The  miracle  of  generative  force, 
Far-reaching  concords  of  astronomy 
Felt  in  the  plants  and  in  the  punctual  birds ; 
Better,  the  linked  purpose  of  the  whole, 
And  chief est  prize  found  I  true  liberty 
In  the  glad  home  plain-dealing  Nature  gave." 

In  "Monadnoc"  the  mountain  itself  is  given  per- 
sonality and  sings  its  own  splendid  song,  in  the  course 
of  which  not  only  the  scenery  of  the  region  passes 
before  us,  but  the  mountain  is  made  a  symbol  of  mat- 
ter waiting  for  its  conqueror,  man,  which  again  seems 
to  symbolize  New  England  waiting  for  its  conqueror, 
the  bard  or  sage. 


II 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        67 

"Every  morn  I  lift  my  head, 
See  New  England  underspread, 
South  from  Saint  Lawrence  to  the  Sound, 
From  Katskill  east  to  the  sea-bound. 
Anchored  fast  for  many  an  age, 
I  await  the  bard  and  sage, 
Who,  in  large  thoughts,  like  fair  pearl-seed, 
Shall  string  Monadnoc  like  a  bead. 

"Comes  that  cheerful  troubadour, 
This  mound  shall  throb  his  face  before, 
As  when  with  inward  fires  and  pain, 
It  rose  a  bubble  from  the  plain. 
When  he  cometh  I  shall  shed, 
From  this  well-spring  in  my  head, 
Fountain-drop  of  spicier  worth 
Than  all  vintage  of  the  earth." 

If  the  other  poets  have  painted  and  mused  and 
rhapsodized  over  New  England  scenery,  Emerson  has 
brought  it  closely  in  touch  with  the  thought  and  as- 
piration of  our  lives.  If  we  climb  a  mountain  we 
remember  the  voice  of  Monadnock,  and  all  mountains 
seem  like  wise  genii  who  show  us  what  we  are  and 
what  we  may  become.  When  we  wander  in  the  depths 
of  New  England  woods  there  is  Emerson's  pine  tree 
to  sing  us  its  mystical  song  of  divine  being. 

"As  the  bee  through  the  garden  ranges, 
From  world  to  world  the  godhead  changes ; 
As  the  sheep  go  feeding  in  the  waste, 
From  form  to  form  he  maketh  haste; 
This  vault  which   glows  immense  with  light 
Is  the  inn  where  he  lodges  for  a  night. 


68       THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"He  is  the  essence  that  inquires ; 
He  is  the  axis  of  the  star ; 
He  is  the  sparkle  of  the  spar; 
He  is  the  heart  of  every  creature ; 
He  is  the  meaning  of  each  feature ; 
And  his  mind  is  the  sky, 
Than  all  it  holds  more  deep,  more  high." 


A  startling  experience  to  one  who  comes  upon  it 
suddenly,  is  the  finding  of  a  bronze  tablet  fastened  to 
a  bowlder  at  Pigeon  Cove  on  Cape  Ann.  Upon  this 
tablet  are  engraved  words  by  Emerson.  It  is  the 
thought  in  prose  which  he  developed  so  finely  in  his 
great  sea  poem,  in  contrast  to  which  Longfellow's 
sea  poems  are  puerile,  Lowell's  pedagogical,  Bryant's 
bombastic,  and  even  Whittier's  tame. 

It  gives  one  a  peculiar  sense  of  delight  to  have  thus 
marked  the  exact  spot  near  the  spouting  rock  on  this 
noble  stretch  of  shore,  with  its  roughly  terraced,  rocky 
slopes,  where  the  poet  received  the  inspiration  for  his 
poem,  and  jotted  it  down  in  words  which  hardly 
needed  to  be  altered  in  their  transference  from  prose 
to  poetry.  The  words  are: 

"Returned  from  Pigeon  Cove,  where  we  have  made 
acquaintance  with  the  sea  for  seven  days.  'Tis  a  no- 
ble, friendly  power  and  seems  to  say  to  me:  'Why  so 
late  and  slow  to  come  to  me?  Am  I  not  here  always, 
thy  proper  summer  home  ?  Is  not  my  voice  thy  need- 
ful music,  my  breath  thy  healthful  climate  in  the 
heats,  my  touch  thy  cure?  Was  ever  building  like  my 
terraces?  Was  ever  couch  so  magnificent  as  mine? 
Lie  down  on  my  warm  ledges  and  learn  that  a  very 
little  hut  is  all  you  need.  I  have  made  this  architec- 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        69 

ture  superfluous  and  it  is  paltry  beside  mine.  Here 
are  twenty  Romes  and  Ninevehs  and  Karnaks  in  ruins 
together,  here  they  all  are  prostrate  or  half-piled.' 

'  'And  behold  the  sea,  the  opaline,  plentiful  and 
strong.  Yet  beautiful  as  the  rose  or  the  rainbow, 
full  of  food,  nourisher  of  men,  purger  of  the  world, 
creating  a  sweet  climate,  and  in  its  unchangeable  ebb 
and  flow  and  in  its  beauty  at  a  few  furlongs  giving  a 
hint  of  that  which  changes  not,  and  is  perfect.' ' 

Emerson's  poetry  has  been  somewhat  obscured  by 
his  prose,  as  well  as  underrated  by  some  critics,  who 
with  their  eyes  upon  occasional  flaws  of  rhyme  and 
meter,  have  failed  to  see  that  he  touches  heights 
reached  by  no  other  American  poet,  and  at  times,  as 
in  this  blank- verse  poem,  is,  in  form  as  well  as  thought, 
flawless. 

"I  heard  or  seemed  to  hear  the  chiding  Sea 
Say,  Pilgrim,  why  so  late  and  slow  to  come? 
Am  I  not  always  here,  thy  summer  home? 
Is  not  my  voice  thy  music,  morn  and  eve? 
My  breath  thy  healthful  climate  in  the  heats, 
My  touch  thy  antidote,  my  bay  thy  bath? 
Was  ever  building  like  my  terraces? 
Was  ever  couch  magnificent  as  mine? 
Lie  on  the  warm  rock-ledges,  and  there  learn 
A  little  hut  suffices  like  a  town. 
I  make  your  sculptured  architecture  vain, 
Vain  beside  mine.     I  drive  my  wedges  home, 
And  carve  the  coastwise  mountain  into  caves. 
Lo !  here  is  Rome  and  Nineveh  and  Thebes, 
Karnak  and  Pyramid  and  Giant's  Stairs 
Half-piled  or  prostrate;  and  my  newest  slab 
Older  than  all  thy  race. 


70        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"Behold  the  Sea, 

The  opaline,  the  plentiful,  the  strong, 
Yet  beautiful  as  is  the  rose  in  June, 
Fresh  as  the  trickling  rainbow  of  July ; 
Sea  full  of  food,  the  nourisher  of  kinds, 
Purger  of  earth,  and  medicine  of  men ; 
Creating  a  sweet  climate  by  my  breath, 
Washing  out  harms  and  griefs  from  memory, 
And,  in  my  mathematic  ebb  and  flow, 
Giving  U  hint  of  that  which  changes  not. 
Rich  are  the  sea-gods:  who  gives  gifts  but  they? 
They  grope  the  sea  for  pearls,  but  more  than  pearls : 
They  pluck  Force  thence  and  give  it  to  the  wise. 
For  every  wave  is  wealth  to  Daedalus, 
Wealth  to  the  cunning  artist  who  can  work 
This  matchless  strength.    Where  shall  he  find,  O  waves ! 
A  load  your  Atlas  shoulders  cannot  lift? 

"I,  with  my  hammer  pounding  evermore 
The  rocky  coast,  smite  Andes  into  dust, 
Strewing  my  bed,  and,  in  another  age, 
Rebuild  a  continent  of  better  men. 
Then  I  unbar  the  doors :  my  paths  lead  out 
The  exodus  of  nations :  I  disperse 
Men  to  all  shores  that  front  the  hoary  main. 

"I  too  have  arts  and  sorceries ; 
Illusion  dwells  for  ever  with  the  wave. 
I  know  what  spells  are  laid.     Leave  me  to  deal 
With  credulous  and  imaginative  man ; 
For,  though  he  scoop  my  water  in  his  palm, 
A  few  rods  off  he  deems  it  gems  and  clouds. 
Planting  strange  fruits  and  sunshine  on  the  shore, 
I  make  some  coast  alluring,  some  lone  isle, 
To  distant  men,  who  must  go  there  or  die." 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        71 

Thanks  to  Emerson,  the  voice  of  the  sea  "alway,  al- 
way"  sings  to  us  a  song  of  infinite  power  and  beauty. 
Who  of  us  that  has  lain  upon  the  warm  rock-ledges 
but  must  take  this  poem  into  our  heart  of  hearts!  In 
it  the  great  ocean-soul  of  New  England  finds  its  com- 
pletest  expression. 


ROMANCE: 
LEGENDARY   AND   HISTORICAL 


73 


"Thee  shall  awaken 
Flame  from  the  furnace, 
Bath  of  all  brave  ones, 
Cleanser  of  Conscience, 
Welder  of  will. 

"Lowly  shall  love  thee, 
Thee,  open-handed! 
Stalwart  shall  shield  thee, 
Thee,  worth  their  best  blood, 
Waif  of  the  West! 

"Then  shall  come  singers, 
Singing  no  swan-song, 
Birth-carols,  rather, 
Meet  for  the  man-child 
Mighty  of  bone." 

— LOWELI;. 


74 


II 

ROMANCE:  LEGENDARY  AND  HISTORICAL 

IT  is  often  said  that  in  America  there  are  no  hoary 
traditions,  no  mythology,  no  folk-lore — none  of 
those  elements,  in  fact,  out  of  which  great  liter- 
atures must  be  built.  Admitting  for  a  moment  that 
great  literature  cannot  exist  unless  the  genius  goes 
"trundling  back  into  the  past"  for  his  inspiration,  is  it 
altogether  true  that  material  for  romance  is  so  meager 
in  our  land  as  some  have  tried  to  make  out?  In  the 
first  place,  our  history,  though  it  has  not  been  a  long 
one,  has  been  an  exceedingly  lively  one.  Its  inaugu- 
ration by  bold  and  adventurous  explorers,  who  crossed 
unknown  seas  to  find  a  vast  mysterious  land  into 
whose  wildest  depths  they  hesitated  not  to  penetrate, 
met  with  experiences  which,  if  there  were  nothing  else, 
are  such  stuff  as  go  to  the  making  of  romance.  Then 
began  the  most  stupendous  migration  the  world  has 
ever  known,  of  all  nations  to  the  promised  land.  They 
found  the  new  land  inhabited  by  beings,  evil  or  kind, 
who  lurked  in  the  woods  or  among  the  valleys  and 
hilltops,  not  unlike  the  manitoes  which  these  beings 
themselves  regarded  as  ever-present  good  or  evil 
spirits.  In  the  clash  of  the  so-called  civilized  with  the 
semi-barbaric  were  let  loose  just  those  forces  by  means 

75 


76        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

of  which  the  romantic  tendencies  of  the  human  mind 
flourish.  Races  in  whom  mythology  lingered  only  as 
superstition  met  face  to  face  with  a  race  or  races  in 
which  mythology  was  still  their  religion.  Whenever, 
according  to  the  authority  of  many  ethnologists,  a 
higher  race  conquers  a  lower  race,  the  mythical  ideals 
of  the  lower  race  are  absorbed  more  or  less  by  the 
conquering  race.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  if  the  con- 
quering race  had  reached  a  high  plane  of  conscious- 
ness, the  absorption  in  the  realm  of  ideas  would  be 
more  likely  to  be  artistic  than  religious,  yet  in  the 
witch  superstition  in  New  England,  for  example, 
there  was  a  very  palpable  absorption  of  Indian  ideals 
of  magic  through  the  person  of  Tituba,  the  Indian 
witch  woman;  and  I  am  not  so  sure  that  the  great 
Cotton  Mather  himself  was  not  a  shining  example 
of  a  superior  conqueror  who  had  absorbed  some  of  the 
religious  ideas  of  the  barbarians  he  had  conquered. 

Strictly  speaking,  the  whole  body  of  Indian  legend 
is  just  as  much  ours  to  use  artistically,  as  nature  in 
the  New  World  is  ours  to  use  artistically.  The  only 
pity  is  that  so  much  of  it  has  been  lost. 

To  these  two  sources  of  romance,  the  adventures 
of  the  explorers,  and  the  coming  into  possession  of 
the  mythological  lore  of  the  conquered  race,  are  to  be 
added  the  experiences  of  new  colonies  struggling  to 
make  firm  their  foothold  in  the  new  land.  They  are, 
for  the  most  part,  not  merely  colonists  seeking  for 
wealth,  they  are  men  of  ideals,  whose  settled  determi- 
nation to  realize  them  brings  about  a  wholly  new 
phase  in  the  history  of  political  and  social  develop- 
ment. The  play  and  interplay  of  the  forces  of  con- 
quest, the  forces  of  revolt,  the  forces  that  reach 


COTTON  MATHER 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        77 

forward  toward  high  results  or  that  drag  backwards 
through  the  survival  in  human  nature  of  dying  super- 
stitions, makes  an  exquisite  turmoil  of  New  England 
history  in  particular,  in  which  the  romantic  elements 
are  almost  beyond  calculation.  No  doubt  there  are 
untold  mines  of  romance  still  waiting  to  be  unearthed 
among  the  dusty  archives  of  New  England  Histori- 
cal Societies,  or  in  the  libraries  of  private  families. 

/Whittier  and  Longfellow  alone  of  these  early  New 
England  poets  have  made  effective  use  of  the  wealth 
of  Indian  lore.!  Holmes  and  Emerson  have  not 
touched  it.  Bryant  and  Lowell  have  drawn  upon  it 
in  a  few  minor  poems. 

Whittier's  drafts  upon  aboriginal  tradition  and 
mythology  for  subject  matter  were  not  extensive,  and 
seem  to  have  been  more  a  matter  of  accident  than  of 
express  intention.  He  did  not  have  Longfellow's  am- 
bition to  make  of  Indian  myth  and  custom  a  source 
of  indigenous  epic  material.  Consequently  we  have 
only  four  short  distinctively  Indian  poems,  and  these, 
with  the  exception  of  one,  "How  the  Robin  Came," 
have  to  do  with  Indian  historical  tradition  and  life. 

The  origin  of  the  robin  is  one  of  the  most  charm- 
ing of  the  Chippewa  tales  collected  by  Schoolcraft, 
and  is  familiar  through  prose  versions  in  various  col- 
lections of  Indian  fairy  tales.*  Whittier  brings  the 
ancient  myth  into  relation  with  the  present  by  telling 
it  to  a  group  of  young  friends  upon  a  May  day,  while 
they  watch  the  robins  flitting  in  and  out  among  the 
blossoms.  To  be  changed  into  a  bird  seems  to  have 
been  regarded  as  a  happy  lot  by  the  Algonquin  In- 


*See  author's  "Child's  Guide  to  Mythology." 


78        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

dians,  if  we  may  judge  by  the  number  of  myths  where- 
in the  denouement  is  a  metamorphosis  of  this  kind. 
Sometimes  the  birds  are  changed  back  into  human 
beings  again,  but  in  this  case  of  the  young  hunter  who 
had  been  unable  to  stand  the  rigors  of  the  seven  days' 
fast  demanded  of  all  Indians  on  reaching  manhood, 
the  metamorphosis  is  final  and,  as  Whittier  expresses 
it  in  his  verse,  the  fancy  is  one  we  cannot  do  better 
than  transplant  into  the  imagination  of  the  children. 

"I,  a  bird,  am  still  your  son, 
Happier  than  if  hunter  fleet, 
Or  a  brave,  before  your  feet 
Laying  scalps  in  battle  won. 
Friend  of  man,  my  song  shall  cheer 
Lodge  and  corn-land ;  hovering  near, 
To  each  wigwam  I  shall  bring 
Tidings  of  the  coming  spring; 
Every  child  my  voice  shall  know. 

"And  my  song  shall  testify 
That  of  human  kin  am  I." 

Lowell  chose  for  his  one  Indian  poem  another  Chip- 
pewa  tale,  in  which  metamorphosis  plays  a  part.  He 
embellishes  the  telling  of  the  story  with  various  eth- 
ical fringes  and  in  this  process  its  pristine  folk-loric 
quality  disappears.  Whittier  attaches  his  moral  at 
the  end  of  his  robin  story,  and,  on  the  whole,  if  In- 
dian lore  must  be  used  as  a  text  for  moralizing,  this  is 
preferable. 

The  entire  field  of  Indian  lore,  merely  touched  upon 
by  Whittier  and  Lowell,  has  been  carefully  plowed  by 
Longfellow  with  the  result  that  in  Hiawatha  he  has 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        79 

produced  an  Indian  epic  that  stands  unique  in  the 
literature  not  only  of  America  but  in  that  of  the  world. 
If  to  his  familiarity  with  Indian  legend  he  had  added 
Whittier's  acquaintance  with  localities,  we  might  have 
had  the  unalloyed  delight  of  associating  the  varied 
episodes  in  Hiawatha's  life  and  those  of  the  other  he- 
roes of  the  poem  with  the  wilds  of  Central  New  York, 
instead  of  with  the  far-off  shores  of  Lake  Superior, 
the  home  of  the  Chippewas  or  O  jib  ways,  an  Algon- 
quin tribe.  He  took  the  Iroquois  account  of  Hia- 
watha as  the  basis  for  his  hero's  character,  and  added 
unto  it  a  whole  cycle  of  Algonquin  legends  attaching 
to  Manabozho,  as  well  as  those  of  other  Algonquin 
mythic  personages. 

Schoolcraft,  who  was  Longfellow's  authority  for 
the  Manabozho  and  Hiawatha  legends,  has  been 
anathematized  by  more  than  one  critic  for  confusing 
an  Iroquois  hero  with  an  Algonquin  hero.  Jeremiah 
Curtin,  especially,  declares  that  since  the  Iroquois  and 
Algonquins  were  enemies,  the  former  taking  the  Eng- 
lish and  the  latter  the  French  side,  "it  is  as  if  Euro- 
peans of  some  future  age  were  to  have  placed  before 
them  a  great  epic  narrative  of  French  heroic  adven- 
ture in  which  Prince  Bismarck  would  appear  as  the 
chief  and  central  Gallic  figure  in  the  glory  and  tri- 
umph of  France."  To  which  it  might  be  retorted, 
why  is  it  not  more  like  the  fact  which  already  exists 
of  an  epic  cycle  in  which  a  mythical  King  Arthur  is 
the  hero  both  in  Brittany  and  Wales,  though  the  Nor- 
mans and  the  British  were  enemies?  'A  typical  In- 
dian hero  was  what  Longfellow  wanted — a  being  who 
would  reflect  in  his  single  personality  all  the  qualities 
of  mind  and  nature  characteristic  of  the  Indian,  a 


80       THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

wise  man,  a  cunning  man  and  a  magician.*  One  of 
the  best  proofs  that  the  essential  truths  of  the  Indian 
mythology  are  preserved  is  the  regard  in  which  the 
present-day  descendants  of  the  Chippewas  hold  the 
poem.  The  writer  asked  a  young  Indian  woman  of 
the  Chippewa  tribe  recently  what  she  thought  of  Hia- 
watha. Her  face  lighted  up,  and  she  replied  with  en- 
thusiasm, "I  love  it!"  She  went  on  to  say  that  it  was 
astonishing  how  little  Longfellow's  accounts  of  the 
myths  differed  from  the  stories  which  had  been  handed 
down  to  her  in  her  own  family. 

Examining  a  little  more  carefully  into  the  rela- 
tions of  the  Iroquois  and  the  Algonquins,  we  find  that 
although  they  were  enemies,  they  were  close  neigh- 
bors. All  along  the  eastern  shores  from  Canada  to 
Long  Island  stretched  the  Algonquins,  while  the  Iro- 
quois (originally  Hurons)  extended  from  the  Great 
Lakes  to  South  Carolina,  through  New  York.  In 
Canada,  again,  they  were  neighbors,  occupying  the 
opposite  sides  of  the  St.  Lawrence  until,  if  tradition 
can  be  trusted,  the  Algonquins  drove  the  Hurons 
southwards.  Thus  these  two  Indian  peoples  bordered 
directly  upon,  each  other.  Moreover,  though  the  Al- 
gonquins aided  the  French  and  the  Iroquois  the 
English,  in  1645  peace  was  declared  between  them, 
and  if  they  did  not  lie  down  together  like  the  lion 
and  the  lamb,  they  did  what  was  no  doubt  an  Indian 
equivalent — they  hunted  together  freely  the  next 
winter. 

This  peace  was  ratified  in  a  curious  manner.  His- 
tory relates  that  the  Iroquois  ambassador  set  himself 

*Por  the  lore  of  Hiawatha,  see  "Longfellow's  Country." 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        81 

to  sing  and  dance.  He  took  a  Frenchman  on  one  side, 
an  Algonquin  and  Huron  on  the  other,  and  holding 
them  each  embraced  with  his  arms  they  danced  in  ca- 
dence, and  sang  with  a  strong  voice  a  song  of  peace. 

In  view  of  these  facts  there  seems  little  reason  to 
doubt  that  the  myths  of  these  two  great  families  of 
Indians,  especially  those  of  a  similar  character,  might 
migrate  from  one  tribe  to  the  other,  and  as  myths 
are  but  figments  of  the  imagination,  what  more 
natural  than  to  suppose  the  great  hero  Hiawatha, 
who  appeared  to  his  people  on  Lake  Onondaga  in  his 
white  canoe  surrounded  by  magic,  and  after  organ- 
izing the  five  nations  into  the  first  United  States  of 
America,  disappeared  in  the  same  magic  fashion;  what 
more  natural  than  to  add  to  his  distinction  by  at- 
taching to  him  all  the  exploits  of  the  neighboring  Al- 
gonquin hero,  or  vice  versa? 

Although  Whittier  has  used  Indian  lore  so  little, 
he  has  in  the  remainder  of  his  Indian  poems  taken 
distinctively  New  England  traditions  connected  with 
the  localities  with  which  he  was  familiar.  "The 
Funeral  Tree  of  the  Sokokis"  recounts  an  incident  of 
the  struggle  between  the  Whites  and  the  Indians 
which  took  place  upon  Sebago  Lake  in  Maine.  The 
Sokokis  occupied  a  long  stretch  of  territory  between 
Agamenticus  and  Casco  Bay.  In  this  struggle  their 
chief,  Polan,  was  killed  at  Windham  on  the  lake.  It 
is  related  that  after  the  Whites  had  retired,  the  In- 
dians beat  down  a  young  beech  tree  until  its  roots 
were  upturned,  when,  the  tree  springing  back  to  its 
position,  the  body  was  covered. 

The  lover  of  the  scenery  in  the  vicinity  of  Sebago 
Lake,  with  its  darkly  wooded  shores  and  its  ranges 


82        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

of  hills  sloping  in  higher  and  higher  curves  to  the 
distant  White  Mountains,  will  appreciate  the  accu- 
racy of  the  pictorial  setting  Whittier  has  given  to  this 
incident. 

"Around  Sebago's  lonely  lake 
There  lingers  not  a  breeze  to  break 
The  mirror  which  its  waters  make. 

"The  solemn  pines  along  its  shore, 
The  firs  which  hang  its  grey  rocks  o'er, 
Are  painted  on  its  glassy  floor. 

"The  sun  looks  o'er,  with  hazy  eye, 
The  snowy  mountain-tops  which  lie 
Piled  coldly  up  against  the  sky. 

"Dazzling  and  white!  save  where  the  bleak, 
Wild  winds  have  bared  some  splintering  peak, 
Or  snow-slide  left  its  dusky  streak. 

"Yet  green  are  Saco's  banks  below, 
And  belts  of  spruce  and  cedar  show, 
Dark  fringing  round  these  cones  of  snow." 

In  spite  of  many  summer  camps  dotted  along  its 
shores,  Sebago  still  gives  the  same  impression  of  lone- 
liness, for  the  camps  nestle  among  the  trees  of  the  still- 
unspoiled  woodlands,  but  the  identical  "beechen-tree" 
that  furnished  "The  Indian's  fitting  monument,"  we 
should  probably  look  for  in  vain. 

"The  Truce  of  Piscataqua"  tells  another  incident 
of  White  and  Indian  warfare,  in  which  the  celebrated 
Chief  Squando  figures.  The  Piscataqua  River  flows 
between  Maine  and  New  Hampshire,  and  with  its 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        83 

dams  and  bridges  and  towns  of  to-day  is  so  different 
a  region  from  what  it  was  in  the  days  of  Squando  that 
only  by  aid  of  the  poet's  imagination  can  we  be  trans- 
ported back  into  that  past  when  every  little  settle- 
ment was  constantly  in  fear  of  a  surprise  from  hostile 
Indians. 

The  introductory  lines  of  the  poem  give  the  scene: 

"Wide  over  hill  and  valley  spread 
Once  more  the  forest,  dusk  and  dread, 
With  here  and  there  a  clearing  cut 
From  the  walled  shadows  round  it  shut ; 
Each  with  its  farm-house  builded  rude, 
By  English  yeoman  squared  and  hewed, 
And  the  grim,  flanked  block-house  bound 
With  bristling  palisades  around." 

Whittier,  in  this  instance,  fell  upon  an  incident  that 
showed  Squando  to  much  better  advantage  than  it  did 
his  civilized  conquerors.  Squando's  rage  had  been 
aroused  because  of  the  brutal  treatment  of  his  child 
by  some  white  sailors.  He  took  up  his  hatchet,  but  was 
obliged  in  the  end  to  sue  for  peace.  Whittier  frames 
the  peace  conference  after  his  own  imagination,  en- 
riching Squando's  plea  with  Indian  lore,  and  inten- 
sifying the  situation  by  bringing  into  it  a  captive  child 
who  has  grown  fond  of  Squando  and  his  Indians  be- 
cause of  their  kind  treatment  of  it.  It  is  matter  of 
record  that  the  white  children  taken  captive  by  the 
Indians  became  so  fond  of  Indian  life  that  they  often 
desired  to  stay  with  their  Indian  friends  rather  than  to 
return  to  their  own  relations.  The  speech  which  Whit- 
tier has  put  into  the  mouth  of  Squando  breathes  a  rare 
pathos,  at  the  same  time  that  it  reflects  Indian  ways 


84        THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

of  thinking,  showing  on  Whittier's  part  a  remarkable 
faculty  for  putting  himself  in  sympathy  with  the 
religious  attitude  of  the  savage. 

Squando  draws  a  pitiful  picture  of  his  squaw  seated 
alone  in  her  wigwam,  mourning  her  child;  then  tells 
of  his  own  dream  as  he  lay  on  the  grave  of  their  child  : 

"  'In  the  third  night-watch  I  heard, 
Far  and  low,  a  spirit-bird; 
Very  mournful,  very  wild, 
Sang  the  totem  of  my  child. 

"  '  "Menewee,  poor  Menewee, 

Walks  a  path  he  cannot  see; 
Let  the  white  man's  wigwam  light 
With  its  blaze  his  steps  aright. 

"  '  "All-uncalled,  he  dares  not  show 
Empty  hands  to  Manito; 
Better  gifts  he  cannot  bear 
Than  the  scalps  his  slayers  wear." 

*  'All  the  while  the  totem  sang, 

Lightning  blazed  and  thunder  rang; 
And  a  black  cloud,  reaching  high, 
Pulled  the  white  moon  from  the  sky. 

"  'I,  the  medicine-man,  whose  ear 
All  that  spirits  hear  can  hear — 
I,  whose  eyes  are  wide  to  see 
All  the  things  that  are  to  be, — 

*  'Well  I  know  the  dreadful  signs 

In  the  whispers  of  the  pines, 
In  the  river  roaring  loud, 
In  the  mutter  of  the  cloud. 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        85 

"  'At  the  breaking  of  the  day, 
From  the  grave  I  passed  away ; 
Flowers  bloomed  round  me,  birds  sang  glad, 
But  my  heart  was  hot  and  mad.' " 

He  goes  on  with  his  proposals  for  peace: 

"  'There  is  rust  on  Squando's  knife 
From  the  warm,  red  springs  of  life; 
On  the  funeral  hemlock-trees 
Many  a  scalp  the  totem  sees. 

"  'Blood  for  blood !    But  evermore 
Squando's  heart  is  sad  and  sore ; 
And  his  poor  squaw  waits  at  home 
For  the  feet  that  never  come! 

"'Waldron  of  Cocheco,  hear! 

Squando  speaks,  who  laughs  at  fear; 
Take  the  captives  he  has  ta'en ; 
Let  the  land  have  peace  again!' 

"As  the  words  died  on  his  tongue, 
Wide  apart  his  warriors  swung ; 
Parted,  at  the  sign  he  gave, 
Right  and  left,  like  Egypt's  wave. 

"And,  like  Israel  passing  free 
Through  the  prophet-charmed  sea, 
Captive  mother,  wife,  and  child 
Through  the  dusky  terror  filed. 

"One  alone,  a  little  maid, 
Middle  way  her  steps  delayed, 
Glancing,  with  quick,  troubled  sight, 
Round  about  from  red  to  white. 


86        THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"Then  his  hand  the  Indian  laid 
On  the  little  maiden's  head, 
Lightly  from  her  forehead  fair 
Smoothing  back  her  yellow  hair. 

"  'Gift  or  favor  I  ask  none ; 
What  I  have  is  all  my  own ; 
Never  yet  the  birds  have  sung, 
Squando  hath  a  beggar's  tongue. 

"  'Yet  for  her  who  waits  at  home, 
For  the  dead  who  cannot  come, 
Let  the  little  gold-hair  be 
In  the  place  of  Menewee ! 

"  'Mishanock,  my  little  star ! 
Come  to  Saco's  pines  afar; 
Where  the  sad  one  waits  at  home, 
Wequashim,  my  moonlight,  come!' 

"  'What!'  quoth  Waldron,  'leave  a  child 
Christian-born,  to  heathens  wild? 
As  God  lives,  from  Satan's  hand 
I  will  pluck  her  as  a  brand!' 

"'Hear  me,  white  man!'  Squando  cried, 
'Let  the  little  one  decide. 
Wequashim,  my  moonlight,  say, 
Wilt  thou  go  with  me  or  stay?' 

"Slowly,  sadly,  half  afraid, 
Half  regretfully,  the  maid 
Owned  the  ties  of  blood  and  race — 
Turned  from  Squando's  pleading  face. 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        87 

"Not  a  word  the  Indian  spoke, 
But  his  wampum  chain  he  broke, 
And  the  beaded  wonder  hung 
On  that  neck  so  fair  and  young." 

The  poem  goes  on  to  relate  how,  years  after,  the 
child  of  this  child  with  her  mother's  wampum  chain 
about  her  neck  was  frolicking  by  the  brookside,  and 
happened  to  meet  Squando,  who  recognizing  his  chain, 
added  to  it  his  silver  totem  cross.  The  child  when 
she  goes  home  relates  her  experience  and — 

"Straight  the  mother  stooped  to  see 
What  the  Indian's  gift  might  be. 
On  the  braid  of  wampum  hung, 
Lo!  a  cross  of  silver  swung. 

"Well  she  knew  its  graven  sign, 
Squando's  bird  and  totem  pine." 

Because  of  this  touching  sign  that  Squando  had 
never  forgotten  his  little  captive,  the  mother  remem- 
bered the  old  Indian  henceforth  in  her  prayers, — ac- 
counted at  that  time  almost  heretical,  nevertheless 
prescient  of  present-day  enlightenment. 

But  it  is  on  the  shores  of  his  beloved  Merrimac, 
near  its  headwaters  among  the  White  Hills,  that  the 
scene  of  Whittier's  most  ambitious  Indian  poem  is 
laid,  "The  Bridal  of  Pennacook."  The  action  is  trans- 
ferred for  a  time  to  the  sea-coast,  but  the  tragic  end- 
ing of  the  story  is  again  linked  with  the  river.  The 
wedding  is  that  of  another  celebrated  Indian  Chief, 
Winnepurkit,  known  as  George  Sachem  of  Saugus, 
to  the  daughter  of  Passaconaway.  By  way  of  leading 


88        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

up  to  the  story,  Whittier  begins  with  describing  the 
journey  of  a  party  of  friends  to  the  White  Moun- 
tains, until  the  region  of  Pennacook,  now  Concord, 
New  Hampshire,  is  reached.  The  mountain  scenery 
is  pictured  after  his  manner  with  vivid  touches.  Then, 
caught  by  a  storm,  the  party  takes  refuge  in  a  moun- 
tain inn,  "which  looks  from  Conway  on  the  mountains 
piled,"  and  here  the  poet  finds  an  extensive  library  of 
four  books,  in  the  description  of  which  is  a  dash  of 
humor  not  uncharacteristic  of  Whittier: 

"A  well-thumbed  Bunyan,  with  its  nice  wood  pictures 
Of  scaly  fiends  and  angels  not  unlike  them; 
Watts'  unmelodious  psalms;  astrology's 
Last  home,  a  musty  pile  of  almanacs, 
And  an  old  chronicle  of  border  wars 
And  Indian  history." 

He  finds  in  the  Indian  history  the  "Story  of  the 
marriage  of  the  Chief  of  Saugus  to  the  dusky  Weeta- 
moo,  daughter  of  Passaconaway,  who  dwelt  in  the  old 
time  upon  the  Merrimac." 

The  girl  of  the  party  insists  that  the  others  shall 
give  a  versified  account  of  the  legend,  which  they  agree 
to  do.  Each  is  then  supposed  to  take  one  of  the  di- 
visions, of  which  the  first  describes  the  Merrimac  as 
it  was  in  those  early  days,  already  referred  to  in  the 
first  chapter;  the  second  describes  the  dwelling  among 
the  White  Hills  of  the  mighty  chief  or  Bashaba,  Pas- 
saconaway, drawing  also  his  portrait,  the  chief  of 
magic  skill, 


"And  a  Panisee's  dark  will 
Over  powers  of  good  and  ill, 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        89 

Powers  which  bless  and  powers  which  ban, 
Wizard  lord  of  Pennacook." 


"The  Daughter,"  "The  Wedding,"  follow;  then  the 
new  home  on  the  sea-coast  is  described : 

"A  wild  and  broken  landscape,  spiked  with  firs, 
Roughening  the  bleak  horizon's  northern  edge. 


"And  eastward  cold,  wide  marshes  stretched  away, 

Dull,  dreary  flats  without  a  bush  or  tree, 
O'er-crossed  by  icy  creeks,  where  twice  a  day 
Gurgled  the  waters  of  the  moon-struck  sea; 
And  faint  with  distance  came  the  stifled  roar, 
The  melancholy  lapse  of  waves  on  that  low  shore." 

The  New  England  coast  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
present  location  of  Salem  is  finely  shown  here  in  its 
winter  bleakness.  The  poem  now  works  up  quickly 
to  the  tragedy.  Weetamoo,  the  bride,  goes  home  on 
a  visit  to  her  father;  summer  passes,  and  still  Winne- 
purkit  does  not  send  for  her. 

"At  length  a  runner  from  her  father  sent, 
To  Winnepurkit's  sea-cooled  wigwam  went; 
'Eagle  of  Saugus, — in  the  woods  the  dove 
Mourns  for  the  shelter  of  thy  wings  of  love/ 

"But  the  dark  chief  of  Saugus  turned  aside 
In  the  grim  anger  of  hard-hearted  pride; 
'I  bore  her  as  became  a  chieftain's  daughter, 
Up  to  her  home  beside  the  gliding  water. 


90       THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"  'If  now  no  more  a  mat  for  her  is  found 

Of  all  which  line  her  father's  wigwam  round, 

Let  Pennacook  call  out  his  warrior  train, 

And  send  her  back  with  wampum  gifts  again.'  " 

Weetamoo's  father  scornfully  refuses  this  proposi- 
tion, and  the  result  is  poor  little  Weetamoo  embarks  in 
a  canoe  on  the  Merrimac,  the  river  still  being  choked 
with  ice,  with  the  intention  of  returning  to  her  hus- 
band's wigwam.  The  canoe  is  dashed  to  pieces, 
Weetamoo  is  drowned,  and  the  poem  ends  with  a 
sorrowful  song  of  the  Indian  women  who  lament  her 
sad  fate. 

Not  a  large  contribution  to  Indian  legendary  po- 
etry, Whittier's  is  a  most  interesting  one.  The  sto- 
ries are  genuinely  romantic,  and  the  poet  has,  in 
linking  them  with  absolute  fidelity  of  detail  to  the 
scenery  amid  which  the  episodes  occurred,  as  well  as  in 
developing  them  with  sympathy  for  and  knowledge  of 
Indian  ways  of  thinking,  transplanted  into  our  early 
literature  a  seed  of  aboriginal  romanticism  that  might 
easily  grow  into  epic  proportions  through  the  addi- 
tion of  other  similar  traditions. 

With  the  exception  of  the  Indian  tradition  told  in 
"Monument  Mountain,"  already  referred  to,  Bryant 
does  not  connect  any  of  his  Indian  poems  with  definite 
localities.  "An  Indian  at  the  Burial  Place  of  His 
Fathers,"  may  have  referred  to  the  neighborhood  of 
Cummington,  but  the  description  of  the  scene  has 
Bryant's  usual  vagueness.  The  myths  upon  which  he 
touches  are  interesting,  especially  the  lightning  myth 
of  the  Delaware  Indians,  told  in  "A  Legend  of  the 
Delawares": 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        91 

"The  air  is  dark  with  cloud  on  cloud, 

And  through  the  leaden-colored  mass, 
With  thunder-crashes  quick  and  loud, 
A  thousand  shafts  of  lightning  pass. 


"And  to  and  fro  they  glance  and  go, 

Or,  darting  downward,  smite  the  ground. 
What  phantom  arms  are  those  that  throw 
The  shower  of  fiery  arrows  round? 

"A  louder  crash!  a  mighty  oak 

Is  smitten  from  that  stormy  sky. 
Its  stem  is  shattered  by  the  stroke; 
Around  its  roots  the  branches  lie. 

"Fresh  breathes  the  wind,  the  storm  is  o'er; 

The  piles  of  mist  are  swept  away; 
And  from  the  open  sky,  once  more, 
Streams  gloriously  the  golden  day. 

"A  dusky  hunter  of  the  wild 

Is  passing  near  and  stops  to  see 
The  wreck  of  splintered  branches  piled 
About  the  roots  of  that  huge  tree. 

"Lo,  quaintly  shaped  and  fairly  strung, 

Wrought  by  what  hand  he  cannot  know, 
On  that  drenched  pile  of  boughs,  among 
The  splinters,  lies  a  polished  bow." 

The  magic  bow  brings  Onetho,  the  hunter,  luck 
and  fame,  but  too  soon  he  is  himself  killed  by  the 
lightning  of  the  sky  warriors. 


92        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"Tall  warriors,  plumed,  with  streaming  hair 

And  lifted  arms  that  bear  the  bow, 
And  send  athwart  the  murky  air 

The  arrowy  lightnings  to  and  fro." 

His  friends  find  him  lifeless  on  the  ground  in  a 
glen,  and  bear  him  home  in  silent  awe. 

"  'Too  soon  he  died ;  it  is  not  well* — 

The  old  men  murmured,  standing  nigh — 
'That  we,  who  in  the  forest  dwell, 

Should  wield  the  weapons  of  the  sky.' ' 

This,  as  well  as  Bryant's  other  poems  dealing  with 
Indian  lore,  is  entirely  lacking  in  atmosphere.  There 
are  no  vital  touches  to  show  us  the  Indian  as  he  ac- 
tually was.  We  neither  see  the  real  Indian  in  his 
native  wilds  nor  hear  him  speak,  as  Squando  speaks, 
for  example,  with  the  thoughts  and  the  language  that 
belong  to  his  race.  Bryant  merely  tells  the  story  for 
the  story's  sake  in  his  own  smooth,  flowing  language. 

Whittier  and  Longfellow  are  again  in  the  van  in 
the  treatment  of  the  early  historical  traditions  of  ex- 
plorers and  colonists,  to  which  should  be  added  ro- 
mantic pictures  of  New  England  life.  Lowell  has 
something  to  offer  here,  also — not  much,  it  is  true,  but 
of  fine  quality.  The  remaining  poets  under  discussion 
have  done  nothing.  Bryant,  when  in  a  romantic  frame 
of  mind,  evolves  fairy  stories  from  his  own  brain,  like 
"Sella"  and  "The  Little  People  of  the  Snow,"  and 
they  are  quite  as  exquisite  as  anything  he  has  written, 
and,  moreover,  as  far  away  from  New  England  as 
anything  could  well  be,  in  the  land  of  nowhere. 

All  three  poets  were  attracted  by  the  tradition  of 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        93 

the  Norseman's  early  discovery  of  America.  Long- 
fellow's "Skeleton  in  Armor,"  one  of  the  most  strik- 
ing things  he  ever  wrote,  makes  famous  the  Norse 
Tower  or  old  mill  at  Newport.*  Whittier,  in  his 
poem  "The  Norsemen,"  adds  another  leaf  to  the 
laurel  crown  of  the  Merrimac: 

"But  hark ! — from  wood  and  rock  flung  back, 
What  sound  comes  up  the  Merrimac  ? 
What  sea-worn  barks  are  those  which  throw 
The  light  spray  from  each  rushing  prow? 
Have  they  not  in  the  North  Sea's  blast 
Bowed  to  the  waves  the  straining  mast? 
Their  frozen  sails  the  low,  pale  sun 
Of  Thule's  night  has  shone  upon ; 
Flapped  by  the  sea-wind's  gusty  sweep 
Round  icy  drift  and  headland  steep." 

The  vision  of  the  Norsemen  ascending  the  Merri- 
mac has  been  conjured  up  by  a  sight  of  the  fragment 
of  a  statue,  rudely  chiselled  from  dark  gray  stone, 
found  a  century  before  in  the  town  of  Bradford  on  the 
Merrimac.  The  origin  of  it  is  entirely  conjectural, 
but  the  poet  allows  his  imagination  to  picture  it  as  a 
relic  from  the  days  of  the  Norse  adventurers.  He, 
however,  kindly  saves  the  student  of  poetic  origins 
any  qualms  of  conscience  as  to  the  accuracy  of  his 
statements  by  informing  them  that  there  is  nothing 
whatever  to  prove  the  statue  a  Norse  relic,  and  then, 
in  a  spirit  of  bravado,  he  exclaims,  "But  all  the  same, 
I  am  thankful  for  the  flight  of  imagination  set  going 
by  the  old  stone." 


•See  "Longfellow's  Country.1 


94        THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"Yet,  for  the  vision  of  the  Past, 
This  glance  upon  its  darkness  cast, 
My  spirit  bows  in  gratitude 
Before  the  Giver  of  all  good." 


Most  readers  will  forgive  the  flight  of  imagination 
sooner  than  the  conscientious  explanation  with  which 
the  poem  ends.  It  is  cruel  to  steal  the  critics'  thunder 
in  this  prosaic  way!  What  hair-splitting  controversies 
might  not  have  arisen,  as  voluminous  as  those  over 
Longfellow's  tricky  imagination  in  relation  to  his 
skeleton  and  his  Newport  windmill! 

In  "Norembega,"  enchantment  is  added  to  another 
lovely  region  of  New  England — the  islands  in  and 
beyond  Penobscot  Bay  in  Maine,  and  along  the  bor- 
ders of  the  river.  A  legend  grew  up  that  in  the  coun- 
try south  of  Cape  Breton  there  existed  a  magnificent 
and  barbaric  city  called  Norembega.  The  country  had 
been  discovered  by  Verrazani  in  1524,  and  the  city  is 
actually  laid  down  on  a  map  published  in  Antwerp  in 
1570.  Champlain  in  1604  sailed  in  search  of  the  city, 
going  up  the  Penobscot  from  Isle  au  Haut,  but  from 
the  appearance  of  the  country  he  concluded  that  those 
who  described  it  had  never  seen  it.  The  only  thing 
he  found  was  a  cross,  very  old  and  mossy,  in  the  woods. 
Whittier  makes  the  cross  the  starting  point  of  his 
legend.  It  had  belonged  to  an  early  Norman  Christian 
Knight,  who  sought  the  wondrous  city  and  died  in  the 
attempt.  All  that  exists  to-day  to  remind  one  of  the 
old  legend  is  a  summer  settlement  called  Norembega, 
on  the  shores  of  Eggemoggin  Reach. 

Lowell  treats  the  subject  of  the  Norsemen  with  due 
seriousness.  He  catches  the  atmosphere  of  the  Ice- 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        95 

landic  Sagas,  and  without  a  slavish  adherence  to  facts, 
tells  of  Biorn's  voyage  to  Vinland.  Biorn's  mood  of 
desire  for  some  "joy  untried"  with  a  brain  that 

"Grew  not  weary  with  the  limbs, 
But,  while  they  slept,  still  hammered  like  a  Troll," 

and  the  lay  of  the  skald  that  finally  aroused  him  to 
action,  are  wholly  imaginative.  If  we  may  believe  the 
"Saga  of  Eric  the  Red,"  Biorn's  discovery  of  Vin- 
land was  quite  by  accident.  He  set  sail,  it  seems,  in  or- 
der to  join  his  father  in  Greenland,  but  a  north  wind 
took  him  out  of  his  course.  And  first  they  saw  a  land 
with  forests  and  low  hills,  but  passed  it  by;  they  saw 
another  level  and  full  of  woods,  and  passed  it,  and 
still  another  with  lofty  mountains  and  white  peaks, 
and  finding  it  an  island  they  passed  it  by  also.  And 
then  sailing  four  days  more,  they  came  to  Greenland. 
Biorn  was  very  properly  blamed  by  his  countrymen 
for  not  exploring  the  new  lands  he  had  seen,  and  Lief, 
the  son  of  Eric,  bought  Biorn's  ship  and  set  sail  with 
a  number  of  companions,  explored  the  shores  Biorn 
had  seen,  landed  farther  south  and  spent  the  winter 
in  Vinland. 

Lowell  has  evidently  seized  upon  the  fact  of  Biorn's 
lack  of  ambition  in  not  exploring  the  country  as  an 
index  to  a  character  that  vacillated  between  a  hunger 
for  great  achievement  and  a  feeling  that  nothing  was 
worth  accomplishing,  expressed  in  the  lines— 

"Swords  grave  no  name  on  the  long-memoried  rock 
But  moss  shall  hide  it ;  they  alone  who  wring 
Some  secret  purpose  from  the  unwilling  gods 


96       THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Survive  in  song  for  yet  a  little  while 
To  vex,  like  us,  the  dreams  of  later  men, 
Ourselves  a  dream,  and  dreamlike  all  we  did." 

And  shown  again  in  his  mood  when  Vinland  is 
reached.  The  lines  descriptive  of  the  voyage  are  the 
finest  in  the  poem: 

"Four  weeks  they  sailed  a  speck  in  sky-shut  seas. 
Life,  where  was  never  life  that  knew  itself, 
But  tumbled  lubber-like  in  blowing  whales ; 
Thought,  where  the  like  had  never  been  before 
Since  Thought  primeval  brooded  the  abyss ; 
Alone  as  men  were  never  in  the  world, 
They  saw  the  icy  foundlings  of  the  sea, 
White  cliffs  of  silence,  beautiful  by  day, 
Or  looming,  sudden-perilous,  at  night 
In  monstrous  hush;  or  sometimes  in  the  dark 
The  waves  broke  ominous  with  paly  gleams 
Crushed  by  the  prow  in  sparkles  of  cold  fire. 
Then  came  green  stripes  of  sea  that  promised  land 
But  brought  it  not,  and  on  the  thirtieth  day 
Low  in  the  west  were  wooded  shores  like  cloud. 
They  shouted  as  men  shout  with  sudden  hope; 
But  Biorn  was  silent,  such  strange  loss  there  is 
Between  the  dream's  fulfilment  and  the  dream, 
Such  sad  abatement  in  the  goal  attained." 

Lowell  declared  to  one  of  his  friends  that  his  chief 
wish  in  writing  the  poem  was  to  bring  in  a  prophecy 
of  what  America  was  to  become  in  the  future.  Con- 
sequently he  makes  Gudrida,  a  prophetess,  accompany 
Biorn.  The  sagas  speak  of  a  Gudrid  who  twice  made 
the  voyage  to  Vinland,  first  as  the  wife  of  Torstein, 
who  died  of  the  plague  in  Greenland,  then  as  the  wife 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        97 

of  Thorfinn  Karlsefne,  who  intended  to  found  a  col- 
ony in  Vinland.  He  became  frightened,  however,  at 
the  hostility  of  the  natives,  whose  rage  had  been 
aroused  because  one  of  them  had  been  killed  by  a 
servant  of  his,  and  he  returned  to  Greenland. 

The  most  striking  thought  brought  out  in  Gudrida's 
prophecy  is  of  kin  with  that  so  splendidly  expressed 
by  Emerson  in  his  "Song  of  Nature": 

"Let  war  and  trade  and  creeds  and  song 
Blend,  ripen  race  on  race, 
The  sunburnt  world  a  man  shall  breed 
Of  all  the  zones  and  countless  days," 

and  by  Zangwill  recently,  in  his  play,  "The  Melting- 
pot": 

"Men   from   the   Northland, 

Men  from  the  Southland, 

Haste  empty-handed; 

No  more  than  manhood 

Bring  they  and  hands. 

"Dark  hair  and  fair  hair, 
Red  blood  and  blue  blood, 
There  shall  be  mingled; 
Force  of  the  ferment 
Makes  the  New  Man." 

The  two  episodes  of  history  especially  productive 
of  material  for  romance  in  New  England  were  the 
witch  persecution  and  the  Quaker  persecution.  Long- 
fellow treated  both  of  these  in  plays  included  in  his 
longest  and  most  serious  work,  "Christus:  A  Mys- 
tery." Part  III  of  this,  under  the  general  heading 


98        THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"The  New  England  Tragedies,"  contains  the  two 
plays  "John  Endicott"  and  "Giles  Corey  of  the 
Salem  Farms." 

These  are  not  in  any  sense  great  plays,  but  they 
are  valuable  as  studies  of  the  period.  The  actual  facts 
are  more  carefully  regarded  than  is  usual  with  Long- 
fellow, and  what  imaginative  touches  there  are,  he  has 
worked  up  consistently  with  the  facts.  The  charac- 
terization of  John  Endicott  especially  is  good.  This 
grim  old  Puritan,  who  piously  stamped  out  every- 
thing which  he  regarded  inimical  to  the  glory  of  God 
as  he  understood  it,  yet  had  a  heart.  He  was  capable 
of  arousing  love  in  the  hearts  of  his  fellow-colonists, 
and  no  doubt  Longfellow  was  justified  in  making  him 
at  the  end  of  his  life  regret  his  part  in  all  that  "bloody 
work." 

Longfellow  used  the  most  palpable  historical  as- 
pects of  these  early  episodes  in  Colonial  history,  be- 
cause he  wished  to  fit  them  into  a  large  scheme,  giving 
the  important  epochs  in  the  religious  life  of  Christen- 
dom. These  crises  in  New  England  were  the  death- 
throes  of  religious  persecution  in  the  western  world, 
at  least  in  an  acute  form,  and  from  that  time  the 
growth  of  religious  liberty  has  been  a  steady  one,  in 
spite  of  occasional  lapses  into  mild  forms  of  persecu- 
tion. This  period  was  therefore  a  great  one  in  the 
history  of  Christendom,  and  because  of  its  universal 
significance  was  the  fitting  climax  in  Longfellow's 
portrayal  of  important  historical  epochs  in  religion. 

Whittier,  poetizing  about  the  same  period,  sees  its 
effects  upon  the  daily  life  of  the  people,  rather  than  its 
historical  significance.  This  was  very  natural,  for  he 
lived  in  a  region  where  as  he,  himself,  tells  us,  a  be- 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND        99 

lief  in  supernaturalism  had  not  yet  died  out.  This 
showed  itself  originally  not  only  in  the  witch  super- 
stition, but  in  a  belief  in  all  sorts  of  magic  happenings. 

When  the  Pilgrims  landed  in  New  England,  they 
had  already  an  inheritance  of  belief  in  witchcraft 
and  a  personal  devil  who  was  constantly  plotting  evil 
against  mankind.  For  three  centuries,  witches  had 
been  burned  and  hanged  by  thousands  in  England, 
France  and  Germany.  It  is  scarcely  to  be  wondered 
at  that  in  the  new  environment,  face  to  face  with  an 
unknown  wilderness,  peopled  by  a  mysterious  race 
who  practised  magic  arts,  these  benighted  colonists 
thought  they  had  come  upon  the  devil's  own  cohorts. 
The  most  learned  scholars  as  well  as  the  clergymen  be- 
lieved in  it. 

"Our  Puritan  ancestors,"  says  Whittier,  in  his  de- 
lightful little  book  on  "Supernaturalism  in  New  Eng- 
land," "were,  in  their  own  view  of  the  matter,  a  sort 
of  advance  guard  and  forlorn  hope  of  Christendom  in 
its  contact  with  the  bad  angel.  The  New  World  into 
which  they  had  so  valiantly  pushed  the  outposts  of 
the  Church  Militant  was  to  them  not  God's  world,  but 
the  devil's.  They  stood  there  on  their  little  patch  of 
sanctified  territory  like  the  game-keeper  of  'Der  Frei- 
schiitz'  in  the  charmed  circle.  Within  were  prayer  and 
fasting,  unmelodious  psalmody  and  solemn  hewing  of 
heretics  'before  the  Lord  in  Gilgal.'  Without  were 
'dogs  and  sorcerers,'  red  children  of  perdition,  Powah 
wizards  and  'the  foul  fiend.' '  He  continues,  "One 
has  only  to  read  the  two  Mathers  to  perceive  that  that 
enemy  was  to  them  no  metaphysical  abstraction,  no 
scholastic  definition,  no  figment  of  a  poetical  fancy, 
but  a  living,  active  reality,  alternating  between  the 


100      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

sublimest  possibilities  of  evil  and  the  lowest  details  of 
mean  mischief;  now  a  tricksy  spirit  disturbing  the 
goodwife's  platters  or  soiling  her  new-washed  linen, 
and  anon  riding  the  storm  cloud  and  pointing  its 
thunderbolts." 

There  were  witches  and  Quakers  and  heretics;  an 
Anne  Hutchinson,  a  Mistress  Hibbins,  a  Cassandra 
South  wick  to  be  feared  as  persons  in  league  with  his 
satanic  majesty,  but  what  were  these  to  the  Indian 
Powahs  and  Panisees,  with  their  conjuring  tricks, 
their  magical  rites,  and  their  grotesque  incantations 
to  drive  away  disease  or  avert  misfortune?  Winthrop 
declares  in  all  seriousness,  "Their  Panisees  are  men  of 
great  power  and  wisdom,  and  to  these  the  devil  ap- 
peareth  more  familiarly  than  to  others." 

In  illustration  of  the  power  wielded  by  a  Panisee, 
an  interesting  incident  is  told  by  Whittier  of  an  In- 
dian preacher's  triumph  over  a  celebrated  Panisee. 
This  preacher,  Hiacoomes,  was  the  first  convert  to 
Christianity  on  Martha's  Vineyard.  "While  address- 
ing on  one  occasion  a  large  assembly  of  his  red  breth- 
ren, and  while  asserting  the  superiority  of  his  new 
faith  over  that  in  which  he  had  been  educated,  a  cele- 
brated Panisee,  whose  magical  power  was  everywhere 
dreaded,  made  his  appearance  in  horrid  costume,  and 
with  the  paraphernalia  of  his  art  hanging  about  him. 
After  vainly  endeavoring  by  strange  gestures,  con- 
tortions and  mutterings,  to  disturb  and  terrify  the 
preacher,  he  placed  before  him  a  charm,  bidding  him 
keep  silence  on  pain  of  instant  destruction.  The  su- 
perstitious and  half-converted  auditors  drew  back  in 
the  utmost  terror,  shrieking  and  begging  their  preach- 
er to  desist.  Hiacoomes  never  hesitated.  With  a  loud 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      101 

voice  he  defied  the  magician,  told  him  his  arts  had 
no  power  over  a  servant  of  the  true  God,  and  in  proof 
of  it  trampled  the  formidable  charm  under  his  feet. 
This  bold  act  was  more  convincing  to  the  astonished 
spectators  than  all  the  previous  sermons  of  their  elo- 
quent teacher.  From  that  day  the  once-formidable 
Powah  became  a  laughing-stock  on  the  island."  Whit- 
tier  gives  a  good  idea  of  what  the  pervading  atmos- 
phere of  superstition  had  been  in  his  "Extract  from  a 
New  England  Legend." 

In  "The  Double  Headed  Snake  of  Newbury"  is 
described  one  of  those  marvels  in  which  Cotton  Mather 
took  so  much  delight,  and  of  which — 

"Whether  he  lurked  in  the  Oldtown  fen 
Or  the  gray  earth-flax  of  the  Devil's  Den, 
Or  swam  in  the  wooded  Artichoke, 
Or  coiled  by  the  Northman's  Written  Rock, 
Nothing  on  record  is  left  to  show ; 
Only  the  fact  that  he  lived  we  know, 
And  left  the  cast  of  a  double  head 
In  the  scaly  mask  which  he  yearly  shed. 
For  he  carried  a  head  where  his  tail  should  be, 
And  the  two,  of  course,  could  never  agree, 
But  wriggled  about  with  main  and  might, 
Now  to  the  left  and  now  to  the  right; 
Pulling  and  twisting  this  way  and  that, 
Neither  knew  what  the  other  was  at." 

The  Rev.  Christopher  Toppan  made  diligent  in- 
quiries concerning  the  Amphisbsena,  as  it  was  called, 
and  was  enabled  to  give  Cotton  Mather  the  assur- 
ance that  "it  had  really  two  heads,  one  at  each  end; 
two  mouths,  two  stings  or  tongues."  Whittier  draws 


102      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

a  picture  of  Cotton  and  his  excitement  when  he  heard 
of  the  marvel, — not  only  humorous,  but  containing  a 
caustic  bit  of  criticism  at  the  expense  of  this  learned 
hunter  of  the  marvellous : 

"Cotton  Mather  came  galloping  down 
All  the  way  to  Newbury  town, 
With  his  eyes  agog  and  his  ears  set  wide, 
And  his  marvellous  inkhorn  at  his  side; 
Stirring  the  while  in  the  shallow  pool 
Of  his  brains  for  the  lore  he  learned  at  school, 
To  garnish  the  story,  with  here  a  streak 
Of  Latin  and  there  another  of  Greek; 
And  the  tales  he  heard  and  the  notes  he  took, 
Behold,  are  they  not  in  his  Wonder-Book?" 

The  poet  declares  that  the  superstition  still  clings 
to  the  locality,  in  a  proverbial  form  at  least : 

"Stories,  like  dragons,  are  hard  to  kill, 
If  the  snake  does  not,  the  tale  runs  still 
In  Byfield  Meadows,  on  Pipestave  Hill. 
And  still,  whenever  husband  and  wife 
Publish  the  shame  of  their  daily  strife, 
And,  with  mad  cross-purpose,  tug  and  strain 
At  either  end  of  the  marriage-chain, 
The  gossips  say  with  a  knowing  shake 
Of  their  gray  heads,  'Look  at  the  Double  Snake! 
One  in  body  and  two  in  will, 
The  Amphisbaena  is  living  still.'  " 

The  most  extended  of  Whittier's  witch  romances  is 
"Mabel  Martin,"  wherein  are  seen  the  baleful  effects 
upon  the  child  of  a  mother's  reputation  for  being  a 
witch.  The  story  starts  from  an  actual  incident.  Su- 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      103 

sanna  Martin,  an  aged  woman  of  Amesbury,  was  tried 
for  witchcraft  and  executed.  Her  home  was  in  what 
is  now  known  as  Pleasant  Valley,  on  the  Merrimac, 
a  little  above  the  old  ferry,  a  spot  famous  in  tradition 
for  the  attempted  assassination  of  the  tyrant,  Andros. 
Another  aged  woman  of  the  neighborhood  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Powwow  River,  the  wife  of  Judge 
Bradbury,  was  also  accused  and  would  have  been  exe- 
cuted but  for  the  sudden  collapse  of  the  persecution. 
Goody  Martin  was  the  only  witch  hanged  on  the  north 
side  of  the  Merrimac.  Again  in  this  poem  we  have 
the  Merrimac  setting,  then  a  harvest  scene,  where  amid 
the  merry  husking  party,  Mabel  Martin  sits  alone  and 
unnoticed,  until  some  of  the  party  observe  her,  only 
to  repeat  her  name  with  cruel  looks  "And  taunt  her 
with  her  mother's  name."  In  her  dire  need,  a  cham- 
pion comes  to  her  defense,  and  with  the  heartlessness 
characteristic  of  the  times,  one  sly  maiden  accuses  her 
of  having  bewitched  him: 

"None  dared  withstand  him  to  his  face, 
But  one  sly  maiden  spake  aside, 
'The  little  witch  is  evil-eyed! 

"  'Her  mother  only  killed  a  cow, 
Or  witched  a  churn  or  dairy-pan; 
But  she,  forsooth,  must  charm  a  man.' ' 

Esek  Harden  is  the  sort  of  man,  however,  who  set- 
tles things  for  himself.  He  is  typical  of  the  forces 
which  were  finally  to  turn  aside  the  fury  of  the  witch 
accusers.  Fortunately  there  were  people  of  common 
sense  who  could  see  the  intrinsic  goodness  of  some  of 


104      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

the  individuals  who  were  accused,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  the  selfish  interests  that  often  actuated  the  ac- 
cusers. He  breaks  out : 

"  'She  is  indeed  her  mother's  child, 
But  God's  sweet  pity  ministers 
Unto  no  whiter  soul  than  hers. 

"  'Let  Goody  Martin  rest  in  peace ; 
I  never  knew  her  harm  a  fly, 
And  witch  or  not,  God  knows — not  I. 

"  'I  know  who  swore  her  life  away ; 
And  as  God  lives,  I'd  not  condemn 
An  Indian  dog  on  word  of  them.' ' 

Esek  follows  up  his  championship  with  love,  and 
Mabel,  as  his  wife,  forgets  the  insults  which  had  been 
heaped  upon  her. 

In  "The  Changeling,"  one  of  the  tales  in  "The 
Tent  on  the  Beach,"  is  shown  the  reformation  through 
prayer  of  one  of  the  witch  accusers,  who  imagines  the 
witch  Goody  Cole  has  exchanged  her  own  child  for  a 
witch-child.  The  poem  is  a  really  powerful  presenta- 
tion of  the  fact  that  the  bewitched  ones  were  more 
often  the  accusers  than  the  accused.  In  this  case  the 
poor  mother  is  sincere.  The  prevailing  belief  in 
witchcraft  and  magic  has  told  so  upon  her  mental 
condition  that  she  is  suffering  from  what  we  should 
to-day  call  hysteria.  Her  wise  husband,  in  his 
prayer,  acts  the  part  of  a  modern  physician  in  giving 
her  hypnotic  suggestions.  These  bring  her  back  to 
herself. 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      105 

"Then  the  goodman,  Ezra  Dalton, 
Laid  his  hand  upon  her  head: 
'Thy  sorrow  is  great,  O  woman ! 
I  sorrow  with  thee,'  he  said. 

"  'The  paths  to  trouble  are  many, 

And  never  but  one  sure  way 

Leads  out  to  the  light  beyond  it ; 

My  poor  wife,  let  us  pray.' 

"Then  he  said  to  the  great  All-Father, 

'Thy  daughter  is  weak  and  blind ; 
Let  her  sight  come  back  and  clothe  her 
Once  more  in  her  right  mind. 

"'Lead  her  out  of  this  evil  shadow, 

Out  of  these  fancies  wild ; 
Let  the  holy  love  of  the  mother 
Turn  again  to  her  child. 

« 'Make  her  lips  like  the  lips  of  Mary 

Kissing  her  blessed  Son ; 
Let  her  hands,  like  the  hands  of  Jesus, 
Rest  on  her  little  one. 

"  'Comfort  the  soul  of  thy  handmaid, 

Open  her  prison-door, 
And  Thine  shall  be  all  the  glory 
And  praise  forevermore.' 

"Then,  into  the  face  of  the  mother 
The  baby  looked  up  and  smiled ; 
And  the  cloud  of  her  soul  was  lifted, 
And  she  knew  her  little  child." 


106      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

The  result  of  her  awakening  is  that  she  sends  her 
husband  galloping  post-haste  to  have  the  witch  Goody 
Cole  released  from  prison.  This  is  another  example 
of  the  fact  that  the  witch  superstition  collapsed 
through  the  good  sense  of  a  few  sturdy  minds. 

Goody  Cole  belonged  to  the  life  of  reality  as  well 
as  to  that  of  romance.  This  poor  harmless  old  woman 
was  brought  before  the  quarter  sessions  in  1680  to 
answer  to  the  charge  of  witchcraft.  The  court  could 
not  find  satisfactory  evidence  of  witchcraft,  but  so 
strong  was  the  feeling  against  her  that  Waldron,  the 
presiding  magistrate,  ordered  her  to  be  imprisoned, 
with  a  lock  kept  on  her  leg,  at  the  pleasure  of  the 
court. 

The  feeling  against  her  was  no  doubt  frequently 
based  upon  such  slight  causes  as  those  in  this  poem, 
or  in  another  poem  of  Whittier's  in  which  she  figures, 
"The  Wreck  of  Rivermouth."  She  lived  alone  in  a 
little  hovel  in  Hampton,  and  for  years  was  feared, 
hated  and  persecuted  as  the  witch  of  Hampton.  In 
the  poem  she  is  responsible  for  the  wreck  in  a  way  in 
which  some  coincidence  might  make  any  one  responsi- 
ble. She  was  guilty  alone  of  speaking  words  of  bad 
omen  which,  unfortunately,  came  true. 


"  'Fie  on  the  witch !'  cried  a  merry  girl, 

As  they  rounded  the  point  where  Goody  Cole 
Sat  by  her  door  with  her  wheel  atwirl, 

A  bent  and  blear-eyed  poor  old  soul. 
'Oho !  she  muttered,  'ye're  brave  to-day ! 
But  I  hear  the  little  waves  laugh  and  say, 
"The  broth  will  be  cold  that  waits  at  home, 
For  it's  one  to  go,  but  another  to  come !" : 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      107 

*  'She's  cursed,'  said  the  skipper ;  'speak  her  fair ; 

I'm  scary  always  to  see  her  shake 
Her  wicked  head,  with  its  wild  gray  hair, 
And  nose  like  a  hawk,  and  eyes  like  a  snake.' ' 

The  storm  comes,  the  boat  is  wrecked,  the  merry 
party  drowned,  and  poor  Goody  Cole  looks  out  from 
her  door: — 


"The  Isles  of  Shoals  were  drowned  and  gone, 
Scarcely  she  saw  the  Head  of  the  Boar 
Toss  the  foam  from  tusks  of  stone. 
She  clasped  her  hands  with  a  grip  of  pain, 
The  tear  on  her  cheek  was  not  of  rain : 
'They  are  lost,'  she  muttered,  'boat  and  crew! 
Lord,  forgive  me !  my  words  were  true.' ' 

The  witches  of  those  good  old  times  were  not  neces- 
sarily hideous  old  crones.  They  might  be  fair  young 
girls  with  the  bluest  of  eyes  and  the  sunniest  of  smiles. 
Such  was  the  witch  of  Wenham,  as  Whittier  pictures 
her,  whose  loveliness,  even  in  the  words  of  the  horror- 
stricken  mother,  trying  to  save  her  son,  shines  out. 

*'  'Son  Andrew,  for  the  love  of  God 

And  of  thy  mother,  stay !' 
She  clasped  her  hands,  she  wept  aloud, 
But  Andrew  rode  away. 

'**  *O  reverend  sir,  my  Andrew's  soul 

The  Wenham  witch  has  caught; 
She  holds  him  with  the  curled  gold 
Whereof  her  snare  is  wrought. 


108      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"  'She  charms  him  with  her  great  blue  eyes, 

She  binds  him  with  her  hair; 
Oh,  break  the  spell  with  holy  words, 
Unbind  him  with  a  prayer!' 


"  'Our  poor  Ann  Putnam  testifies 

§fce  saw  her  weave  a  spell, 
Bare-armed,  loose-haired,  at  full  of  moon, 
Around  a  dried-up  well. 

"  '  "Spring  up,  O  well!"  she  softly  sang, 

The  Hebrew's  old  refrain 
(For  Satan  uses  Bible  words), 
Till  water  flowed  amain. 

"  'And  many  a  goodwife  heard  her  speak, 

By  Wenham  water,  words 
That  made  the  buttercups  take  wings 
And  turn  to  yellow  birds. 

"  'They  say  that  swarming  wild  bees  seek 

The  hive  at  her  command; 
And  fishes  swim  to  take  their  food 
From  out  her  dainty  hand. 

"  'Meek  as  she  sits  in  meeting  time, 

The  godly  minister 
Notes  well  the  spell  that  doth  compel 
The  young  men's  eyes  to  her. 

"  'The  mole  upon  her  dimpled  chin 

Is  Satan's  seal  and  sign ; 
Her  lips  are  red  with  evil  bread 
And  stain  of  unblessed  wine. 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      109 

"  'For  Tituba,  my  Indian,  saith 

At  Quasycung  she  took 
The  Black  Man's  godless  sacrament 
And  signed  his  dreadful  book. 

"  'Last  night  my  sore  afflicted  child 
Against  the  young  witch  cried. 
To  take  her  Marshal  Herrick  rides 
Even  now  to  Wenham  side.'  " 

This  charming  little  person,  who  can  turn  butter- 
cups into  yellow  birds,  is  pounced  upon  by  the  ruthless 
marshal.  In  vain  her  pleadings!  No  account  of  her 
good  doings  can  save  her.  The  poor  child  even  fears 
she  may  unwittingly  have  made  a  compact  with  the 
devil,  a  fear  not  unusual  with  people  who  were  sud- 
denly accused. 

"  'Oh,  leave  me  for  my  mother's  sake, 

She  needs  my  eyes  to  see.' 
'Those  eyes,  young  witch,  the  crows  shall  peck 
From  off  the  gallows-tree.' 

"He  bore  her  to  a  farmhouse  old 

And  up  its  stairway  long, 
And  closed  on  her  the  garret  door 
With  iron  bolted  strong." 

She  is  left  there  but  a  short  time,  however,  for  her 
faithful  lover  is  not  to  be  convinced  by  mother,  clergy- 
man or  marshal  that  his  little  blue-eyed  maid  is  a 
witch. 

"Low  hanging  in  the  midnight  sky 

Looked  in  a  half-faced  moon. 
Was  it  a  dream,  or  did  she  hear 
Her  lover's  whistled  tune? 


110      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"She  forced  the  oaken  scuttle  back ; 

A  whisper  reached  her  ear: 
'Slide  down  the  roof  to  me,'  it  said, 
'So  softly  none  may  hear.' 

"She  slid  along  the  sloping  roof 
Till  from  its  eaves  she  hung, 
And  felt  the  loosened  shingles  yield 
To  which  her  fingers  clung. 

"Below,  her  lover  stretched  his  hands 

And  touched  her  feet  so  small ; 
'Drop  down  to  me,  dear  heart,'  he  said, 
'My  arms  shall  break  the  fall.' 

"He  set  her  on  his  pillion  soft, 
Her  arms  about  him  twined ; 
And,  noiseless  as  if  velvet-shod, 
They  left  the  house  behind." 

The  house  is  still  standing  in  Danvers,  Massachu- 
setts, where  a  suspected  witch  was  confined  overnight 
in  the  attic,  the  door  of  which  was  fast  bolted.  She 
escaped,  however,  during  the  night,  supposedly 
through  the  connivance  of  her  Satanic  colleague. 
Whittier  lets  his  daintiest  fancies  play  about  this  grim 
little  episode,  and  has  turned  out  a  New  England  love 
ballad,  reminding  one  of  the  days  of  chivalry,  yet  re- 
taining genuine  New  England  feeling. 

In  the  "Garrison  of  Cape  Ann"  is  told  another  of 
the  marvellous  tales  so  convincing  to  Cotton  Mather 
as  a  proof  of  the  existence  of  the  devil.  It  was  cer- 
tainly hard  commons  that  the  poor  Puritans  should  be 
obliged  to  fight  spectre  Indians  as  well  as  real  ones. 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      111 

"Thrice,  with  plumes  and  flowing  scalplocks,  from  the  mid- 
night wood  they  came, — 

Thrice  around  the  block-house  marching,  met,  unharmed, 
its  volleyed  flame; 

Then,  with  mocking  laugh  and  gesture,  sunk  in  earth  or 
lost  in  air, 

All  the  ghostly  wonder  vanished,  and  the  moonlit  sands  lay 
bare. 

"Midnight  came;  from  out  the  forest  moved  a  dusky  mass 

that  soon 
Grew  to  warriors,  plumed  and  painted,  grimly  marching  in 

the  moon. 
'Ghosts  or  witches,'  said  the  captain,  'thus  I  foil  the  Evil 

One!' 
And  he  rammed  a  silver  button,  from  his  doublet,  down  his 

gun." 

The  silver  button  did  not  prove  efficacious,  how- 
ever; the  spectral  warriors  appeared  again.  This  time 
the  captain  had  recourse  to  prayer,  whereupon  the 
mystic  marching  of  the  spectres  ceased,  but  not  with- 
out protest,  for 

"A  sound  abhorred,  unearthly,  smote  the  ears  and  hearts  of 

all,— 
Howls  of  rage  and  shrieks  of  anguish !" 

But  never  again  were  the  "ghostly  leaguers*'  seen 
"marching  round  the  block-house  of  Cape  Ann.0 

As  Whittier  himself  remarks  of  the  Puritan  fathers, 
"Let  no  man  lightly  estimate  their  spiritual  knight- 
errantry.  The  heroes  of  old  romance  who  went  about 
smiting  dragons,  lopping  giant  heads,  and  otherwise 


112      THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

pleasantly  diverting  themselves,  scarcely  deserve 
mention  in  comparison  with  our  New  England 
champions." 

The  site  of  this  block-house  has  evidently  been  lost, 
for  Gloucester's  authentic  historian  does  not  give  any 
date  earlier  than  1745  in  connection  with  Gloucester 
fortifications.  At  that  time  a  breastworks  and  stage 
was  thrown  up  upon  what  is  now  known  as  Rocky 
Neck,  the  point  which  makes  the  inner  harbor,  and 
so  built  up  with  prosaic  houses  that  it  would  take  a 
very  elastic  imagination  to  see  it  beleaguered  with 
spectral  warriors.  Though  Gloucester  subsequently 
had  a  fort  on  this  point,  and  also  on  Eastern  Point, 
traces  of  which  are  still  visible,  as  well  as  breastworks 
at  other  exposed  localities,  she  was  never  obliged  to 
fire  a  shot  in  self-defense  except  against  these  early 
spectral  warriors  of  whom  Cotton  Mather  tells. 

Phantom  ships  seem  to  have  been  a  quite  common 
occurrence.  One  is  mentioned  in  this  poem,  a  spectre 
ship  of  Salem  with  dead  men  in  her  shrouds  that  sailed 
sheer  above  the  water,  in  the  loom  of  morning  clouds. 
Longfellow  tells  of  one  in  his  "Phantom  Ship,"  which 
appeared  to  the  people  of  New  Haven,  the  spectre  of 
the  ship  they  had  sent  back  to  England,  laden  with 
whatever  valuables  and  products  of  the  country  they 
could  collect,  and  described  so  circumstantially  at  the 
time  of  its  appearance  that  we  feel  almost  as  bound 
to  believe  in  it  as  the  marvel-intoxicated  Mather. 

Whittier  tells  of  two  others,  one  seen  at  Block 
Island,  and  one  at  Orr's  Island,  on  the  Maine  coast. 
The  former  is  out  of  our  present  jurisdiction,  but  is 
of  peculiar  interest  because  the  vision  had  been  seen 
by  a  man  living  at  the  time  when  Whittier  wrote  the 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      113 

poem.  This  old  gentleman  was  Mr.  Benjamin  Cory- 
don,  of  Napoli,  New  York,  who,  in  his  ninety-second 
year,  wrote  the  following  letter  to  Whittier,  after 
having  read  the  poem: 

"The  Palatine  was  a  ship  that  was  driven  upon 
Block  Island,  in  a  storm,  more  than  a  hundred  years 
ago.  Her  people  had  just  got  ashore,  and  were  on 
their  knees  thanking  God  for  saving  them  from 
drowning,  when  the  islanders  rushed  upon  them  and 
murdered  them  all.  That  was  a  little  more  than  the 
Almighty  could  stand,  so  He  sent  the  Fire  or  Phantom 
Ship,  to  let  them  know  He  had  not  forgotten  their 
wickedness.  She  was  seen  once  a  year  on  the  same 
night  of  the  year  on  which  the  murders  occurred,  as 
long  as  any  of  the  wreckers  were  living;  but  never 
after  all  were  dead.  I  must  have  seen  her  eight  or 
ten  times — perhaps  more — in  my  early  days.  It  is 
seventy  years  or  more  since  she  was  last  seen.  My 
father  lived  right  opposite  Block  Island,  on  the  main- 
land, so  we  had  a  fair  view  of  her  as  she  passed  down 
by  the  island,  then  she  would  disappear.  She  re- 
sembled a  full-rigged  ship,  with  her  sails  all  set  and  all 
ablaze.  It  was  the  grandest  sight  I  ever  saw  in  all 
my  life.  I  know  of  only  two  living  who  ever  saw  her, 
— Benjamin  L.  Knowles,  of  Rhode  Island,  now 
ninety-four  years  old,  and  myself,  now  in  my  ninety- 
second  year." 

No  doubt  these  old  gentlemen  sincerely  thought 
they  had  seen  it ;  but  the  sceptical  might  question  the 
wisdom  of  the  Almighty  in  showing  so  grand  a  sight 
as  a  warning  of  future  punishment. 

The  Dead  Ship  of  Harpswell  is  evidently  the  phan- 
tom of  one  that  went  to  sea  never  to  return,  and  adds 


114      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

a  welcome  touch  of  mystery  to  one  of  Maine's  most 
charming  island-daughters, — 

"For  never  comes  the  ship  to  port, 

Howe'er  the  breeze  may  be ; 
Just  when  she  nears  the  waiting  shore 

She  drifts  again  to  sea. 
No  tack  of  sail,  nor  turn  of  helm, 

Nor  sheer  of  veering  side; 
Stern-fore  she  drives  to  sea  and  night, 

Against  the  wind  and  tide." 

Whittier  assures  us  that  in  his  day  there  still  lin- 
gered in  many  a  green  valley  of  New  England  a  be- 
lief in  charms,  in  visions  of  ghosts,  in  warnings  of 
coming  calamities.  He  actually  knew  a  man  who  be- 
lieved he  had  seen  the  devil  in  the  form  of  a  dog,  and 
among  his  acquaintances  were  several  who  had  had 
strange  supernatural  experiences. 

One  in  particular  he  tells  of  a  lady  of  his  acquain- 
tance, whom  he  describes  as  a  staid,  unimaginative 
church-member.  This  lady  had  a  weird  and  evidently 
devil-inspired  vision  on  the  shores  of  Great  Pond  in 
the  East  Parish  of  Haverhill,  a  spot  so  lovely  that,  in 
the  poet's  estimation,  it  would  seem  the  place  of  all 
others  where  spirits  of  evil  must  shrink,  rebuked  and 
abashed,  from  the  presence  of  the  beautiful.  He  de- 
clares that  whoever  has  seen  Great  Pond,  with  its 
soft  slopes  of  greenest  verdure,  its  white  and  spark- 
ling sand  rim,  its  southern  hem  of  pine  and  maple, 
mirrored,  with  spray  and  leaf,  in  the  glassy  water;  its 
graceful  hill  sentinels  round  about,  white  with  the 
orchard  bloom  of  spring,  or  tasselled  with  the  corn 
of  autumn;  its  long  sweep  of  blue  waters,  broken  here 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      115 

and  there  by  picturesque  headlands, — has  seen  one  of 
the  very  loveliest  of  the  thousand  little  lakes  or  ponds 
of  New  England.  Here,  then,  this  staid  lady  had  the 
bad  taste  to  see  the  following  marvel,  reminiscent  and 
at  the  same  time  typical  of  the  hard-hearted  brutality 
of  the  forefathers  of  New  England:  "She  was  stand- 
ing in  the  angle  formed  by  two  roads,  one  of  which 
traverses  the  pond  shore,  the  other  leading  over  the 
hill  which  rises  abruptly  from  the  water.  It  was  a 
warm  summer  evening,  just  at  sunset.  She  was 
startled  by  the  appearance  of  a  horse  and  cart  of  the 
kind  used  a  century  ago  in  New  England,  driving 
rapidly  down  the  steep  hillside  and  crossing  the  wall 
a  few  yards  before  her,  without  noise  or  displacing  of 
a  stone.  The  driver  sat  sternly  erect,  with  a  fierce 
countenance,  grasping  the  reins  tightly  and  looking 
neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left.  Behind  the  cart  and 
apparently  lashed  to  it  was  a  woman  of  gigantic  size, 
her  countenance  convulsed  with  a  blended  expression 
of  rage  and  agony,  writhing  and  struggling.  Her 
head,  neck,  feet  and  arms  were  naked.  Wild  locks 
of  gray  hair  streamed  back  from  temples  cor- 
rugated and  darkened.  The  horrible  cavalcade  swept 
by  across  the  street  and  disappeared  at  the  margin 
of  the  pond."  Like  many  of  the  marvels  seen  by 
Cotton  Mather,  the  vision  does  not  appear  to  have 
had  any  pertinence  whatever  at  the  time,  and  we  can 
but  meditate  to-day  upon  the  existence  in  the  Puri- 
tan Fathers  of  a  species  of  fanaticism  which  made 
possible  such  an  hallucination  to  a  good  woman  of 
two  centuries  later. 

Removed  a  little  farther  back  was  the  famous  Gen- 
eral Moulton  of  Hampton.  Too  far  back  for  Whittier 


116      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

himself  to  have  known,  yet  he  knew  people  who 
remembered  General  Moulton  and  the  marvellous 
stories  that  had  been  told  about  him,  especially  in  re- 
lation to  his  league  with  the  devil,  who  used  to  visit 
him  occasionally  in  the  shape  of  a  small  man  in  a 
leathern  dress.  The  General's  house  was  once  burned 
in  revenge,  it  is  said,  by  the  fiend,  whom  the  former 
had  outwitted.  He  had  agreed,  it  seems,  to  furnish 
the  General  with  a  bootful  of  gold  and  silver  pieces, 
poured  annually  down  the  chimney.  Upon  one  oc- 
casion, the  grasping  General  hit  upon  the  clever  de- 
vice of  cutting  off  the  foot  of  the  boot.  The  devil 
kept  pouring  down  the  coin  from  the  chimney's  top 
in  a  vain  attempt  to  fill  it,  until  the  room  was  liter- 
ally packed  with  the  precious  metal. 

In  his  poem,  "The  New  Wife  and  the  Old,"  Whit- 
tier  gives  a  poetic  version  of  the  ghost  stories  pertain- 
ing to  the  General,  related  to  him  by  an  elderly 
visitor.  Twenty-five  years  after  the  poem  was  pub- 
lished Whittier  received  other  interesting  proof  of  the 
ghostly  goings-on  in  the  Moulton  mansion  after  the 
General's  and  the  new  wife's  death.  A  lady  who  had 
been  spending  the  summer  in  the  Moulton  House 
wrote  a  letter  to  him  in  which  she  said: 

"I  remember  my  mother's  repeating  to  me  her 
recollections  of  the  exorcising  of  the  ghosts  of  Gen- 
eral Moulton  and  his  wife,  by  a  parson  Milton  or 
Boddily.  My  grandfather  Whipple  being  absent,  the 
servants  (several  of  them  had  been  slaves  in  New- 
port) insisted  that  General  Moulton  and  his  wife 
disturbed  the  house  so  much  at  night,  he  thumping 
with  his  cane,  and  her  dress  a-rustling  up  and  down 
the  stairs,  that  nothing  could  allay  their  terror;  and 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      117 

one,  Mrs.  Williams,  the  housekeeper,  persisted  so 
strongly  that  she  frequently  saw  them  both,  he  in  a 
snuff -colored  suit  and  enormous  wig,  holding  a  gold- 
headed  cane,  that  nothing  could  induce  them  to  re- 
main in  the  house.  Many  persons  in  the  vicinity  came 
to  the  exorcising,  or  'laying  the  ghosts/  as  they 
termed  it.  My  mother  said  the  scene  was  very  im- 
pressive to  her  as  a  child,  and  she  could  never  forget 
the  white  and  black  servants  and  neighbors,  standing 
in  solemn  awe,  and  the  abjuring  of  the  minister.  The 
servants,  I  believe,  never  afterwards  complained  of 
being  disturbed  or  of  seeing  the  ghosts,  after  this 
ceremony." 

The  minister  who  did  the  exorcising  was  the  Rev. 
John  Boddily.  He  died  in  1802,  and  was  buried  in  a 
Newburyport  burying  ground. 

This  does  not  exhaust  all  the  poems  in  which  the 
magic  element  comes  in.  There  is  "Cobbler  Keezar's 
Vision";  the  old  German  cobbler,  who  possessed  a 
fragment  of  magic  moonstone,  sees  in  it  a  vision  of  the 
days  when  in  New  England  there  will  no  longer  be 
hunting  of  witches  and  warlocks,  no  more  clowns  and 
puppets  and  imps,  with  horns  and  tail,  but— 

"Pleasure  without  regretting, 

And  good  wtihout  abuse, 
The  holiday  and  the  bridal 
Of  beauty  and  of  use. 

"Here's  a  priest  and  there's  a  Quaker; 

Do  the  cat  and  dog  agree? 
Have  they  burned  the  stocks  for  ovenwood? 
Have  they  cut  down  the  gallow's-tree  ? 


118      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"Would  the  old  folk  know  their  children? 

Would  they  own  the  graceless  town, 
With  never  a  ranter  to  worry 
And  never  a  witch  to  drown?" 


Still  others  are  "The  Wishing  Bridge,"  a  magic 
bridge  of  Marblehead,  and  "Birchbrook  Mill,"  a 
haunted  spot  where  once  stood  the  old  mill. 

Tales  of  Quaker  persecution  have  been  almost  as 
frequently  an  inspiration  to  Whittier  as  tales  of  super- 
stition and  witchcraft.  "The  Exiles"  and  "Cassandra 
Southwick"  are  the  principal  poems,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  "The  Pennsylvania  Pilgrim."  The  first  car- 
ries us  on  a  delightful  voyage  in  a  wherry  from  up 
the  Merrimac  to  Nantucket.  The  story  is  of  Macy's 
giving  harbor  to  an  old  Quaker  in  a  storm,  where- 
upon, as  usually  happened  in  such  cases,  the  authori- 
ties laid  hands  upon  not  only  the  Quaker,  but  upon 
Goodman  Macy.  They  carried  the  Quaker  off  to 
imprisonment  in  Boston's  famous  jail,  which  stood 
where  the  old  courthouse  now  stands  on  Court 
Street,  and  which  well  deserves  to  be  remembered  as 
New  England's  bastile, — so  unjust  and  outrageous 
were  the  imprisonments  within  it.  Macy,  however, 
called  his  wife,  and  fled  to  the  river,  jumped  into  a 
wherry  and,  wielding  his  oar  to  good  purpose,  es- 
caped pursuit.  Then  began  a  row  as  marvellous, 
certainly,  as  any  recorded  in  history,  down  the  Mer- 
rimac to  the  ocean,  and  along  the  beautiful  north 
shore  to  Massachusetts  Bay. 

"They  passed  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann, 
And  Gloucester's  harbor-bar; 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      119 

The  watch-fire  of  the  garrison 
Shone  like  a  setting  star. 

"How  brightly  broke  the  morning 

On  Massachusetts  Bay ! 
Blue  wave,  and  bright  green  island, 
Rejoicing  in  the  day. 


"Far  round  the  bleak  and  stormy  Cape 

The  venturous  Macy  passed, 
And  on  Nantucket's  naked  isle 
Drew  up  his  boat  at  last." 

It  is  said  Macy  was  the  first  white  settler  (1660) 
on  this  "naked  isle." 

Whittier  waxes  quite  sentimental  over  the  thought 
of  Nantucket  as  the  refuge  of  the  free,  hoping  it  may 
ever  remain  so.  What  would  he  think  of  the  spec- 
tacle of  Nantucket  given  over  to  the  summer  visitor, 
from  whom  the  native  islander  is  anxious  to  extract 
as  much  revenue  as  possible,  even  charging  him  for 
the  fish  which  he  himself  catches?  Whittier  wastes 
no  words  upon  the  scenery  of  Nantucket,  yet  it  has 
its  own  sort  of  beauty.  It  is  well-nigh  treeless,  as  he 
says,  but  it  is  covered  with  low  vegetation,— grasses 
and  flowers  and  shrubs, — which  makes  of  it  a  delight 
to  the  botanist,  in  the  spring,  and  to  the  artist,  in  the 
autumn,  when  its  great  sweeps  of  low,  rolling  land 
are  brilliant  with  colors  as  infinite  as  those  of  the 
most  gorgeous  Persian  carpet,  and  always  through 
the  vistas,  stretches  of  white  sand,  and  beyond,  the 
interminable  blue  of  the  sea. 


120      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

A  Salem  episode  is  versified  in  "Cassandra  South- 
wick."  It  tells  of  the  iniquitous  practice  of  selling 
persons  who  had  harbored  Quakers,  as  slaves  to  the 
English  of  Virginia  or  Barbados,  if  they  were  unable 
to  pay  the  fine.  The  particular  case  upon  which  Whit- 
tier  bases  his  poem  is  that  of  a  boy  and  girl  whose 
father  had  been  imprisoned  and  had  lost  nearly  all 
his  property  for  harboring  Quakers,  and  who  were 
themselves  fined  for  not  going  to  church.  The  inten- 
tion could  not  be  carried  out,  however,  because  no 
ship-master  could  be  found  willing  to  carry  them  to 
the  West  Indies.  Whittier  leaves  the  boy  out  and 
puts  the  telling  of  the  thrilling  story  into  Cassandra's 
mouth.  When  the  sheriff  asked  for  bids,  not  a  voice 
replies;  he  asks  again,  and  one  of  the  captains  spoke 
up,  carried  the  crowd  with  him,  and  the  girl  was 
saved, — another  instance  of  the  power  of  justice  when 
bravely  upheld. 

"Pile  my  ship  with  bars  of  silver,  pack  with  coins  of  Span- 
ish gold, 

From  keel-piece  up  to  deck-plank,  the  roomage  of  her  hold, 
By  the  living  God  who  made  me ! — I  would  sooner  in  your  bay 
Sink  ship  and  crew  and  casks,  than  bear  this  child  away." 

In  four  other  poems  Whittier  presents  four  phases 
of  Quaker  history.  Margaret  Brewster's  visit  with 
four  Friends  to  the  Old  South  Church,  where  she  de- 
livered a  "warning  from  the  great  God  of  Heaven 
and  Earth  to  the  Rulers  and  Magistrates  of  Boston," 
is  described  in  one: 

"Repent !  repent !  ere  the  Lord  shall  speak 
In  thunder  and  breaking  seals ! 


OLD  SOUTH  CHURCH 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      121 

Let  all  souls  worship  Him  in  the  way 
His  light  within  reveals." 

She  received  the  usual  punishment  for  such  of- 
fenses, being  whipped  at  the  cart's  tail  up  and  down 
the  town  with  twenty  lashes. 

"The  King's  Missive"  tells  of  the  arrival  of  Shat- 
tuck  from  Salem  with  the  King's  order  that  the  per- 
secution of  the  Quakers  should  cease.  The  poem 
is  chiefly  interesting  for  the  glimpse  it  gives  of  old 
Boston,  and  the  words  it  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Nich- 
olas Upsall,  who  was  the  friend  of  the  Quakers  and 
is  also  one  of  the  characters  in  Longfellow's  "John 
Endicott."  In  prophecy,— 

"One  brave  voice  rose  above  the  din. 

Upsall,  gray  with  his  length  of  days, 
Cried  from  the  door  of  his  Red  Lyon  Inn : 

'Men  of  Boston,  give  God  the  praise! 
No  more  shall  innocent  blood  call  down 
The  bolts  of  wrath  on  your  guilty  town. 
The  freedom  of  worship,  dear  to  you, 
Is  dear  to  all,  and  to  all  is  due. 

M  'I  see  the  vision  of  days  to  come, 

When  your  beautiful  city  of  the  Bay 
Shall  be  Christian  liberty's  chosen  home, 

And  none  shall  his  neighbor's  rights  gainsay." 

It  seems  that  Whittier  made  a  mistake  in  placing 
the  interview  between  Endicott  and  Shattuck  in  the 
council  chamber.  It  really  occurred  in  Endicott's 
house. 

The  Boston  of  Endicott's  day  was  conspicuous  by 


122      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

reason  of  its  windmill  on  Snow  Hill,  of  which  Whit- 
tier  gives  a  picture: 


"The  autumn  haze  lay  soft  and  still 

On  wood  and  meadow  and  upland  farms ; 
On  the  brow  of  Snow  Hill  the  great  windmill 

Slowly  and  lazily  swung  its  arms; 
Broad  in  the  sunshine  stretched  away, 
With  its  capes  and  islands,  the  turquoise  bay; 
And  over  water  and  dusk  of  pines 
Blue  hills  lifted  their  faint  outlines." 


"How  the  Women  Went  from  Dover"  gives  an 
interesting  episode  of  the  Quaker  persecution,  show- 
ing how  the  humanity  of  a  few  individuals  was  con- 
stantly setting  itself  up  against  the  brutality  of  the 
authorities.  In  this  case,  the  constable,  himself  of  the 
town  of  Salisbury,  refused  to  carry  out  a  warrant 
issued  by  Major  Waldron  for  the  whipping  of  the 
Quakers  Anne  Colman,  Mary  Tomkins  and  Alice 
Ambrose  in  eleven  towns  until  they  should  be  beyond 
his  jurisdiction.  The  warrant  was  executed  in  Dover 
and  Hampton,  but  at  Salisbury  the  constable  stood 
firm.  The  town's  people  supported  him,  as  well 
as  Major  Robert  Pike,  the  leading  man  of  the  lower 
Merrimac  valley,  who  was  an  advocate  of  religious 
tolerance,  and  his  command  was  obeyed: — 


"Cut  loose  these  poor  ones  and  let  them  go; 
Come  what  will  of  it,  all  men  shall  know 
No  warrant  is  good,  though  backed  by  the  Crown, 
For  whipping  women  in  Salisbury  town." 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      123 

"Banished  from  Massachusetts,"  inspired  by  a 
painting  of  E.  A.  Abbey,  is  a  meditation  upon  the 
theme  of  Quaker  banishment,  leading  to  a  conclusion 
which  emphasizes  the  influence  for  good  that  the 
Quakers  actually  had  upon  the  religious  development 
of  the  world.  Fanatical  they  were,  and  doubtless  most 
unpleasant  to  deal  with,  but  they  "advertised,"  as  we 
should  say  to-day,  the  cause  of  freedom  of  conscience 
in  religious  matters.  So  the  English  Suffragettes  are 
advertising  to-day  the  cause  of  the  suffrage  for  wo- 
men. It  is  a  curious  fact  that  methods  of  which  one 
cannot,  in  the  abstract,  approve,  seem  often  to  be 
needed  to  bring  about  a  wholly  good  end. 


'The  Muse  of  history  yet  shall  make  amends 

To  those  who  freedom,  peace,  and  justice  taught, 
Beyond  their  dark  age  led  the  van  of  thought, 

And  left  unforf cited  the  name  of  Friends." 


Romances  of  Colonial  times,  either  historical  or 
imaginative,  in  which  neither  witch  nor  Quaker  ap- 
pear, are  also  to  be  found  only  in  Longfellow  and 
Whittier.  Lowell  touches  upon  the  time  in  his  "In- 
terview with  Miles  Standish,"  which  might  be  de- 
scribed as  a  sociological  conversation  with  the  ghost 
of  the  good  Miles  in  his  study.  It  has  not  a  suspicion 
of  the  romantic  about  it. 

In  the  "Tales  of  the  Wayside  Inn"  Longfellow  has 
included  a  few  romantic  episodes  of  Colonial  times, 
chief  among  which  are  the  poet's  tale  of  "Lady  Went- 
worth,"  and  the  landlord's  tale,  "The  Rhyme  of  St. 
Christopher." 


124      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

The  story  of  "Lady  Wentworth"  takes  us  to  the 
charming  seaport  town  of  Portsmouth,  New  Hamp- 
shire. A  speaking  likeness  of  Governor  Wentworth 
is  given  through  the  eyes  of  Earl  Halifax's  portrait, 
which  swings  upon  the  tavern  sign,  as  well  as  a 
wholly  imaginative  portrait  of  the  future  Lady 
Wentworth: 

"Just  then  the  meditations  of  the  Earl 
Were  interrupted  by  a  little  girl, 
Barefooted,  ragged,  with  neglected  hair, 
Eyes  full  of  laughter,  neck  and  shoulders  bare; 
A  thin  slip  of  a  girl,  like  a  new  moon, 
Sure  to  be  rounded  into  beauty  soon ; 
A  creature  men  would  worship  and  adore, 
Though  now  in  mean  habiliments  she  bore 
A  pail  of  water,  dripping  through  the  street, 
And  bathing,  as  she  went,  her  naked  feet. 

"It  was  a  pretty  picture,  full  of  grace, — 
The  slender  form,  the  delicate,  thin  face; 
The  swaying  motion,  as  she  hurried  by ; 
The  shining  feet,  the  laughter  in  her  eye, 
That  o'er  her  face  in  ripples  gleamed  and  glanced, 
As  in  her  pail  the  shifting  sunbeams  danced. 

"What  next,  upon  that  memorable  day, 
Arrested  his  attention,  was  a  gay 
And  brilliant  equipage,  that  flashed  and  spun, 
The  silver  harness  glittering  in  the  sun, 
Outriders  with  red  jackets,  lithe  and  lank, 
Pounding  the  saddles  as  they  rose  and  sank; 
While  all  alone  within  the  chariot  sat 
A  portly  person,  with  three-cornered  hat, 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      125 

A  crimson  velvet  coat,  head  high  in  air, 
Gold-headed  cane,  and  nicely  powdered  hair, 
And  diamond  buckles  sparkling  at  his  knees; 
Dignified,  stately,  florid,  much  at  ease. 
Onward  the  pageant  swept,  and  as  it  passed, 
Fair  Mistress  Stavers  courtesied  low  and  fast; 
For  this  was  Governor  Wentworth  driving  down 
To  Little  Harbor,  just  beyond  the  town, 
Where  his  Great  House  stood  looking  out  to  sea, 
A  goodly  place  where  it  was  good  to  be." 

The  barefooted  charmer  becomes  the  Governor's 
housemaid,  and  in  due  time  his  wife.  Upon  her  wed- 
ding day  she  appears,— 

"A  maiden,  modest  and  yet  self-possessed, 
Youthful  and  beautiful  and  simply  dressed. 
Can  this  be  Martha  Hilton?     It  must  be! 
Yes,  Martha  Hilton,  and  no  other  she! 
Dowered  with  the  beauty  of  her  twenty  years, 
How  ladylike,  how  queenlike  she  appears ; 
The  pale,  thin  crescent  of  the  days  gone  by 
Is  Dian  now,  in  all  her  majesty." 

Regardless  of  truth,  Longfellow  has  made  a  very 
pretty  story  of  this  marriage,  which,  according  to  a 
descendant  of  a  niece  of  Governor  Wentworth,  a  child 
at  the  time  of  the  marriage,  was  a  very  prosaic  affair 
and  greatly  displeasing  to  his  relatives.  The  true 
version  of  the  story  comes  through  Colonel  Thomas 
Wentworth  Higginson,  who  heard  it  from  the  de- 
scendant, Mrs.  Mary  Ann  Williams,  and  communi- 
cated it  to  Longfellow.  Mrs.  Williams  wrote:  "I 
have  seen  Mr.  Longfellow's  poem,  but  I  should  think 


126      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

he  would  be  afraid  some  of  the  old  fellows  would 
appear  to  him  for  making  it  appear  that  any  others 
than  the  family  were  present  to  witness  what  they 
considered  a  great  degradation.  Only  the  brothers 
and  brothers-in-law  were  present,  and  Mr.  Brown; 
and  the  bride,  who  had  been  his  housekeeper  for  seven 
years,  was  then  thirty-five,  and  attired  in  a  calico 
dress  and  white  apron.  The  family  stood  in  whole- 
some awe  of  the  sturdy  old  governor,  so  treated  Patty 
with  civility,  but  it  was  hard  work  for  the  stately  old 
dames,  and  she  was  dropped  after  his  death." 

The  story  of  St.  Christopher  gives  a  glimpse  into 
the  administration  of  the  law  in  connection  with  of- 
fenders against  morals,  and,  absurd  as  it  is  from  a 
corrective  point  of  view,  it  contains  a  lesson  which 
may  well  be  pondered  over  to-day.  The  story  makes 
a  good  ballad  subject,  and  is  handled  by  Longfellow 
with  the  skill  which  usually  shows  itself  when  he 
adopts  this  form,  so  congenial  to  him.  The  allusions 
to  Morton  of  Merrymount,  to  Salem,  and  to  the  Puri- 
tan governor,  all  take  us  back  to  the  times  of 
Endicott  and  his  untiring  attempts  to  crush  the  trans- 
gressors against  not  only  the  moral  law,  but  the  law 
of  joy  and  happiness. 

"Evangeline"  cannot  be  claimed  for  New  England 
as  far  as  locality  is  concerned,  though  the  history  of 
Acadia  is  closely  linked  with  that  of  New  England, 
for  not  only  did  the  original  Acadia  include  part 
of  what  is  now  Maine,  but  Massachusetts  had  a  con- 
spicuous share  in  the  work  of  banishing  the  French 
from  Nova  Scotia.* 

*See  author's  "Longfellow's  Country." 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      127 

Turning  to  Whittier  again,  we  find  one  or  two 
stories  of  the  Acadians  in  New  England.  "Mar- 
guerite" is  a  romance  of  an  Acadian  maid,  based 
upon  the  fact  that  at  the  time  of  their  banishment 
from  Acadia,  many  Acadians  were  assigned  to  towns 
in  Massachusetts,  and  the  children  bound  out  to  ser- 
vice or  labor.  This  little  maid,  hardly  treated  by  her 
mistress,  is  loved  by  the  son  of  the  mistress,  but  his 
love  comes  too  late;  he  cannot  recall  from  death  the 
maiden,  who  is  dying  from  the  effects  of  the  abuse 
she  has  received.  In  her  dying  vision,  the  girl  sees 
her  native  land.  The  glimpse  of  the  land  of  the 
Basin  of  Minas  and  the  Gaspereau,  though  slight,  is 
suggestive,  except  that  Whittier  makes  the  mistake 
of  describing  the  rise  of  the  tide  on  the  Basin  of 
Minas  as  a  "rush  of  the  sea  at  flood."  I  have  had 
occasion  to  point  out  elsewhere  that  the  rise  of  the 
tide  in  the  Basin  of  Minas,  though  rapid,  as  far  as 
the  volume  of  water  is  concerned,  is  quiet  and  in- 
sinuating. How  could  it  be  otherwise,  with  five  miles 
of  beach  to  cover  and  twelve  hours  in  which  to  do  it? 
If  the  Basin  of  Minas  had  steep  shores,  the  "rush" 
pictured  by  the  poets  would  be  indeed  a  reality. 

Far  more  interesting  than  this  pathetic  little  ballad, 
from  both  a  romantic  and  a  historical  point  of  view, 
is  "St.  John."  Here  we  are  introduced,  not  to  the 
banished  Acadian  peasants  of  Massachusetts,  but  to 
bold  and  adventurous  Frenchmen,  who  with  others 
tried  to  sustain  a  claim  in  Maine  as  part  of  Acadia. 
The  now  sleepy  little  town  of  Pemaquid,  on  John's 
Bay,  which,  viewed  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
bay,  looks  like  some  spectral  city  of  the  clouds,  as 
across  it  drift  the  sunshine  and  the  shadow  with  deli- 


128      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

cate  interchange  of  tints  from  dim  gray  to  gleaming 
white,  was,  for  more  than  a  hundred  years,  a  hotly 
contested  bit  of  territory.  Still  is  to  be  seen  there 
the  ruins  of  the  fort  which  was  destroyed  no  less  than 
three  times  in  the  struggles  fought  upon  this  historic 
spot,  and  finally  was  pulled  down  by  the  inhabitants, 
stone  by  stone,  at  the  time  of  the  War  of  Independ- 
ence, to  prevent  its  being  seized  and  manned  by  the 
English.  Its  destruction  at  this  time  not  being  com- 
plete, a  farmer  who  objected  to  its  obstruction  of  his 
view,  finally  removed  and  carted  off  its  last  stones 
within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant  of  the 
place. 

The  first  fort  was  called  Pemaquid  Fort,  and  is 
said  to  have  been  erected  in  1624.  It  seems  to  have 
been  destroyed,  or  at  least  plundered,  by  the  noted 
pirate,  Dixie  Bull,  in  1632.  In  1677  Fort  Charles 
was  built  in  the  same  spot,  by  Sir  Edmond  Andros. 
This  was  destroyed  in  1689  by  Indians,  under  the 
instigation  of  the  Frenchman,  Baron  De  Castine, 
who,  though  not  in  open  war  with  the  English,  was 
smarting  because  of  the  pillage  of  his  home  by  An- 
dros the  year  before. 

The  attack  resulted  in  the  capitulation  of  the  fort. 
The  captain  of  the  fort,  Weems,  and  his  men,  were 
permitted  to  depart  for  Boston,  and  all  the  people 
of  the  place,  men,  women  and  children,  were  com- 
pelled to  leave  with  the  Indians  for  Penobscot  River. 
The  Indians  thoroughly  destroyed  everything  about 
the  fort  and  settlement,  and  warned  the  English  set- 
tlers never  to  return,  for  they  had  had  too  much  ex- 
perience of  English  perfidy  ever  to  allow  them  to  re- 
main in  peace.  This  victory  of  the  Indians  put  the 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      129 

French  in  full  possession  of  the  Acadia  of  Maine, 
which  had,  by  the  treaty  of  Breda  in  1667,  been 
yielded  to  France.  The  capture  of  Port  Royal  by 
Phips  and  his  forces,  in  1690,  brought  back  the  east- 
ern country  into  the  hands  of  the  English,  and  now 
another  fort  was  built  at  Pemaquid  to  maintain  the 
rights  of  the  English  to  this  territory. 

On  the  arrival  of  Governor  Phips  at  Boston,  May 
14,  1692,  with  the  new  charter  and  his  commission 
as  governor,  he  began  the  erection  of  a  strong  fort 
at  Pemaquid,  "such  as  had  never  before  been  seen  in 
all  that  region."  It  was  built  of  stone,  and  nearly 
twenty  thousand  pounds  was  spent  in  its  construction. 
Mather  himself  describes  this  fine  fort,  called  the  Wil- 
liam Henry.  But  alas  for  plans  of  men  and  mice!— 
four  years  later  there  came  sailing  into  John's  Bay 
the  French,  under  D'Iberville,  with  three  ships,  ac- 
companied by  many  Indians  in  canoes.  It  was  the 
fourteenth  of  August  when  the  fort  received  a  sum- 
mons to  surrender,  and  four  days  later  the  fort  and 
everything  about  it  had  been  destroyed  and  the  walls 
thrown  down  as  far  as  possible. 

The  next  fort,  named  Fort  Frederic,  was  not  built 
until  1729,  when  the  English  government  took  it  in 
charge.  The  white  settlers  who  gradually  returned 
to  Pemaquid  after  the  treaty  of  Utrecht  in  1713,  en- 
croached so  continually  upon  the  land  of  the  natives 
that  their  own  safety  was  constantly  jeopardized,  and 
the  need  of  a  strong  fort  at  Pemaquid  was  greatly 
felt.  The  English  government  not  having  been  able 
to  persuade  the  Massachusetts  Bay  colony  to  rebuild 
the  fort,  at  last,  after  thirty-three  years,  resolved  to 
do  it.  This  fort  became,  for  many  years,  a  haven  of 


130      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

refuge  and  safety  from  the  vengeance  of  the  ag- 
grieved savage. 

The  history  of  this  fort  alone  furnishes  a  stirring 
chapter  in  the  romance  of  New  England. 

With  the  fall  of  Quebec  in  1759,  fortification  here 
was  no  longer  necessary.  Its  great  cannon  were  car- 
ried to  Boston,  and  it  was  left  to  undergo  the  gradual 
process  of  decay.  But  suddenly  came  the  shot,  "heard 
round  the  world" ;  a  town  meeting  was  held  in  Bristol, 
and  the  first  votes  recorded  were,  "First,  Voted  that 
we  go  down  to  Pemaquid  and  tear  down  the  old  fort. 
Second,  Voted  that  next  Tuesday  be  the  day  to  do 
it,"  a  wise  move,  for  the  British  were  already  help- 
ing themselves  to  cattle  and  sheep  along  shore.  The 
story  is  told  that  one  man  remonstrated  upon  the  loss 
of  his  cattle,  when  the  British  officer  said  to  his  men: 
"Take  this  Yankee  rebel's  oxen  into  his  parlor  and 
kill  and  dress  them  there," — and  so  it  was  done. 

To  add  to  the  complexity  of  the  situation  in  Acadia, 
there  were  two  Frenchmen,  Charles  Etienne  La  Tour, 
a  Protestant,  and  M.  D'Aulney  de  Chamisse,  a 
Catholic,  who  carried  on  a  feud  worthy  of  mediaeval 
Europe,  and  made  things  as  unpleasant  for  Pema- 
quid as  the  piratical  Dixie  Bull  had  done.  They  had 
both  been  granted  titles  to  much  land  in  Acadia,  and 
upon  the  death  of  their  superior  officer,  General 
Razilly,  a  bitter  rivalry  sprang  up  between  them.  La 
Tour  was  intrenched  at  St.  John,  and  received  aid 
from  the  English  colonists;  and  D'Aulney  at  Cas- 
tine,  Maine,  not  far  from  Pemaquid,  with  the  French 
and  Indians  to  help  him.  History  records  that  the 
ferocious  contest  between  these  two  unscrupulous  ri- 
vals raged  with  more  or  less  violence  for  twelve  years, 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      131 

and  produced  effects  not  a  little  detrimental  to  the 
settlement  at  Pemaquid  and  all  others  on  the  coast. 
Sometimes  enormous  wrongs  were  committed  upon 
innocent  people  living  in  the  neighborhood,  by  their 
exploits;  angry  menaces  occasionally  thrown  out, 
could  not  but  excite  the  apprehension  of  the  persons 
living  so  near  as  Pemaquid.  This  was  before  the  sec- 
ond fort  was  built.  Consequently  there  was  no  pro- 
tection from  these  feudal  chiefs,  as  Parkman  has 
called  them.  The  incident  in  the  lives  of  these  two 
men  chosen  by  Whittier,  is  the  one  most  capable  of 
heroic  poetic  treatment,  namely,  the  defense  of 
La  Tour's  castle  by  his  wife  from  an  attack  of 
D'Aulney. 

In  the  spring  of  1645  D'Aulney  learned  that 
La  Tour  was  absent  from  his  garrison;  he  proceeded 
then  to  attack  it.  On  the  way  he  met  a  New  England 
vessel,  and  made  a  prize  of  her,  in  utter  disregard  of 
a  treaty  he  had  just  made  with  the  English  colonists, 
and  turned  the  crew  ashore  on  a  distant  island  without 
food  or  suitable  clothing.  On  arriving  at  St.  John 
he  bombarded  the  fort,  but  Madame  La  Tour,  who 
had  command  during  her  husband's  absence,  made 
such  spirited  resistance  that  he  was  obliged  to  retire, 
his  ship  being  badly  damaged,  with  twenty  of  his 
men  killed  and  thirteen  wounded.  On  his  return,  he 
took  aboard  the  men  he  had  put  ashore  on  the  island, 
who  had  remained  there  ten  days  in  great  suffering, 
and  gave  them  an  old  shallop  to  return  in,  but  without 
restoring  any  of  their  property. 

Finally  this  miserable  quarrel  was  brought  to  a 
close.  In  April,  1647,  D'Aulney  again  suddenly 
made  his  appearance  at  St.  John  and  attacked  the 


132      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

fort  with  so  much  energy  that  he  soon  gained  posses- 
sion of  it,  making  Madame  La  Tour  and  the  whole 
garrison  prisoners,  and  appropriating  to  himself  all 
of  La  Tour's  effects  of  every  kind,  which  was  not  less 
than  ten  thousand  pounds. 

Madame  La  Tour,  in  the  absence  of  her  husband, 
had  command  of  the  fort,  and,  as  on  a  former,  similar 
occasion,  defended  it  with  great  vigor,  killing  and 
wounding  many  of  D'Aulney's  men,  but  the  latter, 
having  gained  some  advantage,  offered  favorable 
terms.  She  was  induced  to  capitulate,  surrendering 
everything  into  the  hands  of  her  adversary.  As  soon 
as  possession  of  the  fort  had  been  gained,  D'Aulney, 
utterly  disregarding  the  promises  he  had  made,  in  ac- 
cordance with  his  base  nature,  put  the  whole  garrison 
to  death,  except  one  man,  and  compelled  Madame 
La  Tour  herself,  with  a  rope  around  her  neck,  to  be 
present  at  the  execution.  Exhausted  by  the  heroic 
exertions  she  had  made,  and  stung  to  madness  by  her 
wrongs  and  indignities,  she  died  three  weeks  after 
the  surrender  of  the  fort.*  Whittier's  poem  relates 
the  return  of  La  Tour  to  find  his  fortress  desolated 
and  his  wife  dead.  He  touches  upon  the  friendliness 
of  the  English  colonists  to  the  Huguenot  La  Tour,  as 
he  styles  him: 

".   .  .  the  men  of  Monhegan, 

Of  Papists  abhorred, 
Had  welcomed  and  feasted 
The  heretic  Lord. 


*See  Cartland's  "Ten  Years  at  Pemaquid." 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      133 

"They   had   loaded   his   shallop 

With  dun-fish  and  ball, 
With  stores  for  his  larder, 

And  steel  for  his  wall. 
Pemaquid,  from  her  bastions 

And  turrets  of  stone, 
Had  welcomed  his  coming 

With  banner  and  gun." 

As  we  have  already  seen,  Pemaquid  at  this  time 
was  not  fortified,  except  possibly  by  the  remains  left 
by  Dixie  Bull  of  the  first  wooden  fort.  It  was  not 
until  the  third  fort  was  built  that  stone  was  used.  It 
is  probable ,  however,  that  this  was  not  known  to 
Whittier,  since  at  the  time  he  was  writing  the  "Pema- 
quid Improvement  Association"  had  not  begun  its 
excavations.  Whittier  intensifies  the  situation  by 
making  the  knowledge  of  what  had  happened  come 
to  La  Tour  through  the  mouth  of  a  Jesuit  priest,— 

"  'Speak,  son  of  the  Woman 

Of  scarlet  and  sin ! 
What  wolf  has  been  prowling 

My  castle  within?' 
From  the  grasp  of  the  soldier 

The  Jesuit  broke, 
Half  in  scorn,  half  in  sorrow, 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke: 

"  'No  wolf,  Lord  of  Estienne, 

Has  ravaged  thy  hall, 
But  thy  red-handed  rival 
With  fire,  steel  and  ball! 


13*     THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

On  an  errand  of  mercy 

I  hitherward  came, 
While  the  walls  of  thy  castle 

Yet  spouted  with  flame. 

"  'Pentagoet's  dark  vessels 

Were  moored  in  the  bay, 
Grim  sea-lions,  roaring 

Aloud  for  their  prey. 
'But  what  of  my  lady?' 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne. 
'On  the  shot-crumbled  turret 

Thy  lady  was  seen: 

"  'Half -veiled  in  the  smoke-cloud, 

Her  hand  grasped  thy  pennon, 
While  her  dark  tresses  swayed 

In  the  hot  breath  of  cannon! 
But  woe  to  the  heretic, 

Evermore  woe! 
When  the  son  of  the  church 

And  the  cross  is  his  foe! 

"  'In  the  track  of  the  shell, 

In  the  path  of  the  ball, 
Pentagoet  swept  over 

The  breach  of  the  wall! 
Steel  to  steel,  gun  to  gun, 

One  moment, — and  then 
Alone  stood  the  victor, 

Alone  with  his  men! 

"  'Of  its  sturdy  defenders, 

Thy  lady  alone 

Saw  the  cross-blazoned  banner 
Float  over  St.  John.' 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      135 

'Let  the  dastard  look  to  it!' 

Cried  fiery  Estienne, 
'Were  D'Aulney  King  Louis, 

I'd  free  her  again  !' 

'"  'Alas  for  the  Lady  ! 

No  service  from  thee 
Is  needed  by  her 

Whom  the  Lord  hath  set  free; 
Nine  days,  in  stern  silence, 

Her  thraldom  she  bore, 
But  the  tenth  morning  came, 

And  Death  opened  her  door!' 


if  suddenly  smitten 

La  Tour  staggered  back; 
His  hand  grasped  his  sword-hilt, 

His  forehead  grew  black. 
He  sprang  on  the  deck 

Of  his  shallop  again. 
'We  cruise  now  for  vengeance! 

Give  way  !'  cried  Estienne. 


"Oh,  the  lov'liest  of  heavens 

Hung  tenderly  o'er  him, 
There  were  waves  in  the  sunshine, 

And  green  isles  before  him ; 
But  a  pale  hand  was  beckoning 

The  Huguenot  on ; 
And  in  blackness  and  ashes 

Behind  was  St.  John." 

The  sympathy  which  Whittier  makes  us  feel  for 
La  Tour  is  altogether  misplaced.    He  turned  out  to 


136      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

be  an  even  greater  villain  than  D'Aulney.  After  va- 
rious adventures,  he  took  a  step  which  was  the  begin- 
ning of  his  career  as  a  pirate.  He  entered  into  a 
conspiracy  with  part  of  his  crew,  who  were  French- 
men, to  put  on  shore  the  rest,  who  were  English,  and 
take  possession  of  the  vessel  and  cargo  as  their  own. 
The  Englishmen  were  put  on  shore  in  the  depth  of 
winter  in  a  destitute  condition,  and  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  friendly  aid  of  some  Mickmack  Indians, 
would  probably  never  have  reached  their  homes.  But 
this  is  not  all.  D'Aulney,  having  died,  La  Tour  re- 
turned to  Acadia  and  married  D'Aulney's  widow. 
They  lived  many  years  together  and  had  several  chil- 
dren. It  is  said  that  a  singular  prosperity  marked 
the  latter  years  of  his  life,  but  that  in  all  his  pros- 
perity he  never  remembered  the  Puritan  friends  who 
had  helped  him.  This  extraordinary  romance  is  a  sub- 
ject fitted  to  the  hand  of  a  Victor  Hugo,  rather  than 
to  that  of  our  gentle  Quaker  poet.  A  drama  to  rival 
"Hernani"  in  melodramatic  situations  might  be  made 
from  such  material. 

Whittier  has  touched  upon  many  of  the  romantic 
aspects  of  early  New  England  life,  and  has  written 
about  them  simply  and  most  sympathetically  in  a 
form  which  makes  of  them  genuine  classics  of  New 
England  lore,  but  in  "The  Courtship  of  Miles 
Standish,"  Longfellow  has  produced  the  chief  poetic 
romance  of  Colonial  New  England. 

He  has  twisted  history  and  the  facts  in  relation  to 
Priscilla  and  John  Alden  to  suit  himself,  yet  from 
this  poem  is  gained  a  vivid  picture  of  the  Plymouth 
Colony  and  its  ways.  Especially  does  the  doughty 
Miles  stand  before  us — a  mixture  of  piety  and  mili- 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      137 

tary  enthusiasm,  hardly  to  be  matched  in  the  annals 
of  Christendom. 

It  is  the  same  hardy  and  uncompromisingly  genu- 
ine soul  which  speaks  in  Lowell's  poem,  and  who 
thinks  "  'Tis  shame  to  see  such  painted  sticks  in 
Vane's  and  Winthrop's  places." 

Longfellow  and  Whittier  both  lend  the  distinction 
of  their  muse  to  the  quaint  seaside  town  of  Marble- 
head.  The  former  gives  but  a  glimpse  of  the  place 
in  his  "Fire  of  Drift  Wood,"  and  not  an  altogether 
accurate  one,  as  it  was  in  his  own  day,  while  Whit- 
tier  puts  a  bit  of  life  into  verse  characteristic  of  the 
early  days  of  the  town  in  "Skipper  Ireson's  Ride." 
"Impulse  as  contrasted  with  Yankee  calculation  is 
typical,"  says  Samuel  Roads,  Jr.,  in  his  History,  "of 
Marblehead.  The  women  impulsively  stoned  certain 
Indian  women  to  death  on  a  fine  Sunday  morning, 
on  their  way  to  church."  He  attributes  this  to  the 
fact  that  the  colonists  of  Marblehead  from  the  Chan- 
nel Islands  had  French  blood  in  their  veins.  "For 
two  hundred  and  fifty  years  after  the  first  fishermen 
crept  into  the  cleft  in  the  rocks,  Marblehead  was  racy, 
unique,  thoroughly  romantic."  Whittier  portrays  this 
impulsiveness,  perhaps  unconscious  of  its  truthfulness, 
for  the  poem  is,  on  the  whole,  more  imaginative  than 
accurate;  it  was  the  men,  not  the  women  of  Marble-' 
head,  who  gave  Ireson  his  ride,  and  far  from  repent- 
ing of  his  action  in  regard  to  the  sinking  ship,  the 
skipper  declared  that  they  would  one  day  regret  their 
treatment  of  him.  According  to  the  historian,  it  was 
the  crew  of  Captain  Ireson,  not  himself,  who  were 
responsible  for  the  abandonment  of  the  sinking  vessel, 
they  having  absolutely  refused  to  go  to  its  help  on 


138      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

account  of  the  gale  which  was  blowing.  In  order  to 
screen  themselves  they  charged  the  captain  with  the 
crime,  when  the  impulsive  people  of  Marblehead,  with- 
out further  question,  decided  to  make  him  suffer  for  it. 
"On  a  bright  moonlight  night  the  unfortunate  skipper 
was  suddenly  seized  by  several  powerful  men,  and  se- 
curely bound.  He  was  then  placed  in  a  dory  and  be- 
smeared from  head  to  foot  with  tar  and  feathers  and 
dragged  through  the  town,  escorted  by  men  and  boys. 
When  opposite  the  locality  now  known  as  Workhouse 
Rocks,  the  bottom  of  the  dory  came  out,  and  the  pris- 
oner finished  the  remainder  of  his  ride  to  Salem  in  a 
cart.  The  authorities  of  that  city  forbade  the  entrance 
of  the  strange  procession,  and  the  crowd  returned  to 
Marblehead.  Throughout  the  entire  proceeding  Mr. 
Ireson  maintained  a  dignified  silence,,  and  when,  on 
arriving  at  his  own  house,  he  was  released  from  cus- 
tody, his  only  remark  was :  'I  thank  you  for  my  ride, 
gentlemen,  but  you  will  live  to  regret  it.' '  Whittier 
was  certainly  not  a  conscious  sinner  against  fact  in 
this  instance,  for,  as  he  declares,  "I  knew  nothing  of 
the  particulars,  and  the  narrative  of  the  ballad  was 
pure  fancy."  He  expressed  satisfaction  that  Mr. 
Roads  had  brought  out  the  truth  in  his  book,  for  his 
verse  had  been  founded  solely  on  a  fragment  of 
rhyme  which  he  had  heard  from  one  of  his  early  school- 
mates, who  was  a  native  of  Marblehead. 

Other  romances  of  the  early  days  are  "Mary  Gar- 
vin,"  an  imaginary  tale,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid 
near  the  headwaters  of  the  Saco  River  at  Conway, 
New  Hampshire;  and  "The  Ranger,"  a  song  of  the 
old  French  War,  in  which  there  is  a  lovely  description 
of  Casco  Bay: 


w 
W 
H 


140      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

powers  or  subtler  evil  propensities  than  mere  histor- 
ical personages  ever  possess. 

With  Longfellow  and  Whittier  as  guides,  we  may 
make  an  extended  tour  in  New  England  to  spots  thus 
transformed  by  their  poetic  alchemy,  enjoying  at  once 
nature's  beauty  through  our  own  sympathetic,  if  un- 
poetic  eyes,  and  her  beauty  as  pictured  by  the  poets  in 
their  scene  settings.  When  taking  our  summer  j  aunts 
to  the  sea,  we  are  reminded  by  Longfellow  of  the 
Norse  vikings  at  Newport;  phantom  ships  sail  in  the 
air  before  us,  now  on  the  wings  of  Longfellow's  im- 
agination from  New  Haven,  now  on  Whittier's,  from 
Orr's  Island.  We  stay  at  home  or  take  a  little  journey 
to  the  neighboring  city  of  Salem,  and  both  poets  show 
us  the  grim  figures  of  Endicott  and  Mather  at  every 
turn,  fulfilling  their  strange  destiny  as  the  destroyers 
of  witches  and  Quakers.  We  sail  to  Gloucester,  and 
spectral  Indian  warriors  start  up  at  Whittier's  bid- 
ding, as  we  enter  its  lovely  harbor.  Sailing  up  the 
coast  from  here,  we  meet,  also  at  Whittier's  bidding, 
the  gallant  Macy  on  his  way  with  his  wife  to  Nan- 
tucket  in  a  small  wherry,  rowing  manfully  in  the 
heavy  sea.  And  now  it  is  Whittier's  wand  alone  that 
peoples  the  scene  with  marvels :  double-headed  snakes 
are  hiding  both  their  heads  in  Newbury;  at  Homp- 
ton,  Goody  Cole  sits  in  her  hut  and  utters  her  words 
of  bad  omen  as  a  merry  crowd  goes  off  on  a  sail  from 
Rivermouth.  But  do  we  dare  to  enter  the  Merrimac 
and  wend  our  way  up  its  rapid  waters?  For  here 
spring  up  the  figures  of  Squando,  and  the  wizard 
Panisee,  Passaconaway.  No  civilization  of  to-day, 
with  its  mills  and  bridges,  can  blot  out  the  delicious 
terror  of  his  magic.  We  forgot  to  think  of  the  hard- 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      141 

hearted  Winnepurkit  at  Salem,  when  we  were  near  his 
haunts,  but  how  can  we  help  it  now,  for  his  poor  little 
bride,  Weetamoo,  may  come  drifting  down  the  stream 
at  any  moment?  Our  sympathies  are  so  wrought  up 
over  the  thought  of  Weetamoo,  that  we  failed  to  ob- 
serve the  Indians  attacking  ancient  Haverhill  by 
moonlight,  and  now  we  are  near  the  headwaters  of  the 
Merrimac  in  the  White  Hills,  at  the  home  of  Passa- 
conaway.  Other  stories  of  a  later  time  come  to  our 
mind  here,  but  at  present  we  are  so  immersed  in  the 
past  that  the  poet's  wand  beacons  us  onward  to  view 
more  of  its  tragic  scenes  in  the  kaleidoscope  of  his 
imagination.  Pemaquid  now  appears,  half-way  up 
the  Maine  coast,  as  in  a  dream,  for  in  no  other  way 
could  the  journey  from  Pennacook,  the  home  of  Pass- 
aconaway,  be  made  so  rapidly.  Pirates  and  French- 
men, Jesuits,  Indians  and  Puritans  are  all  commingled 
here  in  inextricable  confusion,  fighting,  plundering, 
deceiving  each  other,  and  far  off,  at  St.  John,  stands 
a  brave  and  noble  woman  upon  the  battlements,  de- 
fending her  husband's  fortress,  a  good  deed  shining 
in  a  naughty  world. 

The  poets  have  hurried  us  along  so  rapidly  upon 
their  soaring  wings  that  many  a  romantic  spot  has 
been  missed,  but  a  bird's-eye  view  is  valuable  for  its 
suggestiveness  of  the  wealth  of  detail  to  be  discovered 
upon  a  nearer  view.  It  proves,  at  least,  that  the  soil 
of  New  England  is  redolent  of  romance,  and  that  the 
poet's  wand  alone  is  needed  to  make  it  spring  forth 
in  varied,  picturesque  and  lifelike  forms. 


HISTORY: 

FROM    THE    BIRTH    OF    THE    NATION 
TO  ITS  MAJORITY 


143 


'O  tenderly  the  haughty  day 
Fills  his  blue  urn  with  fire; 

One  morn  is  in  the  mighty  heaven, 
And  one  in  our  desire. 


'United  States!  the  ages  plead,— 

Present  and  Past  in  under-song, — 

Go  put  your  creed  into  your  deed, 
Nor  speak  with  double  tongue. 


"The  conscious  stars  accord  above, 

The  waters  wild  below, 
And  under,  through  the  cable  wove, 
Her  fiery  errands  go. 

"For  He  that  worketh  high  and  wise, 

Nor  pauses  in  His  plan, 
Will  take  the  sun  out  of  the  skies 
Ere  freedom  out  of  Man." 

— EMEESON. 


144 


Ill 


HISTORY:  FROM  THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  NATION  TO  ITS 

MAJORITY 

IN  the  history  of  America  there  have  so  far  been 
but  three  events  of  epoch-making  importance, — 
the  colonization  of  the  country,  its  birth  as  an 
independent  nation,  and  the  attainment  of  its  ma- 
jority, when  slavery,  the  weakness  of  its  youth,  was 
abolished.    The  first  epoch, — the  gestation  of  the  na- 
tion,— as  pointed  out  in  the  last  chapter,  has  been 
handled  by  our  poets  in  a  romantic  rather  than  in 
a  historical  spirit. 

When  we  come  to  examine  the  history  of  the  sec- 
ond epoch,  as  a  source  of  inspiration  to  this  elder 
group  of  poets,  we  are  surprised  to  find  how  few  of 
its  stirring  episodes  have  been  used  by  them.  Per- 
haps the  lines  most  often  quoted  in  connection  with 
the  Concord  fight  are  Emerson's,  from  the  first  stanza 
of  the  "Concord  Hymn": 

"Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world." 

The  remainder  of  the  hymn  is  not  remarkable,  and 
these  lines  have  the  disadvantage  of  not  being  alto- 
gether fair  to  the  patriots  of  Lexington,  who,  even 
if  it  be  true  that  they  made  no  return  fire,  stood  their 

145 


146      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

ground — a  mere  handful  of  men — in  the  face  of 
trained  soldiers,  and  allowed  themselves  to  be  shot 
down.  Whittier  has  righted  this  unintentional  wrong 
on  Emerson's  part  in  his  poem  of  "Lexington."  His 
Quaker  sympathies  went  out  to  the  men  who  did  not 
shoot.  As  he  explained  when  refusing  to  contribute 
a  poem  for  the  Bunker  Hill  Centennial:  "I  stretched 
my  Quakerism  to  the  full  strength  of  its  drab  in 
writing  about  the  Lexington  folks  who  were  shot  and 
did  not  shoot  back.  I  cannot  say  anything  about 
those  who  did  shoot  to  some  purpose  on  Bunker 
Hill."  The  Quaker  drab  is  somewhat  too  evident  in 
the  poem,  a  conscientious  and  accurate  enough  ac- 
count, but  hardly  calculated  to  arouse  the  enthusiasm 
which  one  feels  should  be  the  due  of  those  "simple 


men." 


Their  dogged  resistance  meant  the  muzzling  of  tyr- 
anny, and  the  clearing  of  the  way  for  a  mighty  step 
in  world  progress.  Whittier  indicates  all  this,  it  is 
true,  but  it  is  done  with  too  peaceful  and  prosaic  a 
touch. 

"All  that  was  theirs  to  give,  they  gave. 
The  flowers  that  blossomed  from  their  grave 
Have  sown  themselves  beneath  all  skies. 

"Their  death-shot  shook  the  feudal  tower, 
And  shattered  slavery's  chain  as  well; 
On  the  sky's  dome,  as  on  a  bell, 
Its  echo  struck  the  world's  great  hour." 

Besides  the  "Concord  Hymn,"  two  other  poems  of 
Emerson's  shed  their  lustre  upon  this  period  of  Amer- 
ican history.  In  the  "Ode,"  sung  in  the  Town  Hall 


nHMMUM 


m 


THE  MINUTE  MAN 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      147 

at  Concord,  July  4,  1857,  the  connection  is  scarcely 
more  than  the  suggestiveness  of  the  date  for  which 
it  was  written.  It  gives  but  a  hint  of  the  historic 
event  which  made  July  Fourth  a  date  of  paramount 
significance  in  our  history,  but  it  does  give  in  Emer- 
son's own  "winged"  way  an  ideal  of  what  freedom 
should  mean  translated  into  daily  action,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  shows  it  to  be  a  divine  force  in  the  uni- 
verse,* working  with  the  steadiness  of  fate  toward 
fulfilment. 

"Boston,"  though  more  definitely  historical  in  set- 
ting, is  similarly  philosophical  in  intent.  What  is 
the  meaning  of  Boston  and  the  Boston  Tea  Party, 
for  freedom?— 

"Kings  shook  with  fear,  old  empires  crave 

The  secret  force  to  find 
Which  fired  the  little  state  to  save 
The  rights  of  all  mankind." 

We  might  all  do  well  to  direct  our  energies  toward 
making  the  ideal  Boston,  founded  upon  a  divine  be- 
lief in  Freedom,  as  beautiful  as  Emerson  pictures  it: 

"Let  the  blood  of  her  hundred  thousands 

Throb  in  each  manly  vein ; 
And  the  wits  of  all  her  wisest, 

Make   sunshine   in   her   brain. 
For  you  can  teach  the  lightning  speech, 
And  round  the  globe  your  voices  reach. 

"And  each  shall  care  for  other, 
And  each  to  each  shall  bend, 


*  Quoted  at  the  head  of  this  chapter. 


148      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

To  the  poor  a  noble  brother, 

To  the  good  an  equal  friend. 
A  blessing  through  the  ages  thus 

Shield  all  thy  roofs  and  towers  I 
GOD  WITH  THE  FATHERS,  so  WITH  us, 

Thou  darling  town  of  ours!" 

The  few  snatches  of  genuine  description  in  the 
poem  have  the  charm  Emerson  always  manages  to 
throw  into  his  descriptive  verse;  a  charm  which  re- 
minds one  of  the  peculiar  luminousness  of  atmosphere 
characteristic  of  Boston's  climate  at  its  best,  belong- 
ing indeed  to  the  whole  Massachusetts  seaboard,  but 
not  found  in  Maine.  One  thinks,  at  times,  of  Emer- 
son as  having  quaffed  this  luminous  air,  when,  like 
an  elixir  of  life,  it  irradiates  his  being  and  his  poetry. 
Isolated  from  the  rest  of  the  poem,  these  snatches 
of  description  give  us  a  very  lovely  glimpse  of  the 
youthful  Boston,  in  its  unsophisticated,  tax-defying 
days: 

"The  rocky  nook  with  hilltops  three 

Looked  eastward  from  the  farms, 
And  twice  each  day  the  flowing  sea 

Took  Boston  in  its  arms. 

"The  wild  rose  and  the  barberry  thorn. 

Hung  out  their  summer  pride, 
Where  now  on  heated  pavements  worn 
The  feet  of  millions  stride. 

"Fair  rose  the  planted  hills  behind 

The  good  town  on  the  bay, 
And  where  the  western  hills  declined 
The  prairie  stretched  away. 


,THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      149 

"They  laughed  to  know  the  world  so  wide ; 

The  mountains  said,  'Good-day! 
We  greet  you  well,  you  Saxon  men, 
Up  with  your  towns  and  stay !' 


"  'For  you,'  they  said,  'no  barrier  be, 

For  you  no  sluggard  rest ; 
Each  street  leads  downward  to  the  sea, 
Or  landward  to  the  west.' 

"O  happy  town  beside  the  sea, 

Whose  roads  lead  everywhere  to  all ; 
Than  thine  no  deeper  moat  can  be, 
No  stouter  fence,  no  steeper  wall !" 

Bryant's  poem,  "Seventy-Six,"  is  scarcely  more 
definite  than  Emerson's  "Ode."  It  gives  no  vital 
picture  of  the  incidents  of  Seventy-six.  It  talks  of 
heroes  in  general,  and  refers  to  the  "blood"  that  flowed 
at  Concord  and  Lexington,  but  not  a  word  is  said 
of  the  men  who  fought  there.  Indefinite  as  this  poem 
is  in  the  treatment  of  the  period  and,  moreover,  wholly 
commonplace  in  thought,  it  yet  has  a  rhythmical 
swing  and  a  choiceness  in  diction  that  give  it  a  gen- 
uine hold  upon  the  attention.  Less  human  and  de- 
tailed than  Whittier's  "Lexington,"  it  is  actually  more 
stirring: 

"What  heroes  from  the  woodland  sprung, 
When,  through  the  fresh-awakened  land, 

The  thrilling  cry  of  freedom  rung, 

And  to  the  work  of  warfare  strung 
The  yeoman's  iron  hand. 


150      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"Hills  flung  the  cry  to  hills  around, 

And  ocean-mart  replied  to  mart, 
And  streams,  whose  springs  were  yet  unfound, 
Pealed  far  away  the  startling  sound 

Into  the  forest's  heart. 

"Then  marched  the  brave  from  rocky  steep, 
From  the  mountain  river,  swift  and  cold; 

The  borders  of  the  stormy  deep, 

The  vales  where  gathered  waters  sleep, 
Sent  up  the  strong  and  bold, — 

"As  if  the  very  earth  again 

Grew  quick  with  God's  creating  breath, 

And,  from  the  sods  of  grove  and  glen, 

Rose  ranks  of  lion-hearted  men 
To  battle  to  the  death." 

Longfellow,  in  "Paul  Revere's  Ride,"  and  Holmes, 
in  "A  Ballad  of  the  Boston  Tea  Party,"  and  "Grand- 
mother's Story  of  Bunker  Hill,"  have  alone  taken  us 
back  into  the  realities  of  the  time,  and  they  have  done 
this  because  they  have  neither  generalized,  like  Bry- 
ant, philosophized,  like  Emerson,  nor  meditated  with 
accuracy,  like  Whittier;  they  have  simply  romanti- 
cized. They  have  not  been  over-careful  about  small 
details  of  history,  but  they  have  portrayed  life  with 
action  and  incident,  and  reproduced  an  atmosphere 
which  brings  one  into  direct  touch  with  the  scenes 
that  never  fail  to  awaken  in  the  true  American  moods 
of  genuine  patriotic  fervor. 

Holmes  assures  his  readers  that  the  story  of  Bunker 
Hill  is  told  as  literally  in  accordance  with  the  au- 
thorities as  if  it  had  been  written  in  prose.  That  is 


a 

H3 

o 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      151 

true  as  far  as  the  account  of  the  battle  is  concerned, 
but  he  has  invented  a  grandmother,  who  was  a  girl 
at  the  time,  to  watch  the  battle  and  portray  what  the 
feelings  of  a  girl  would  be  under  such  trying  and 
exciting  circumstances.  When  asked  what  church  it 
was  from  which  the  little  party  with  the  corporal 
watched  the  battle,  he  answers  in  a  quizzical  way,— 
evidently  hitting  at  the  controversies  in  regard  to  the 
church  where  Paul  Revere's  lanterns  were  hung  out, 
started  by  Longfellow's  poem, — that  it  is  a  point 
upon  which  he  is  not  prepared  to  speak'  authoritative- 
ly, but  the  reader  may  take  his  choice,  among  all  the 
steeples  standing  at  that  time  in  the  northern  part 
of  the  city.  He  expresses  his  own  preference  for 
Christ  Church  in  Salem  Street,  though  he  does  not 
insist  upon  its  claim.  As  Christ  Church  has  been 
finally  decided  upon  by  Boston  archaeologists  to  be 
the  one  from  which  Paul  Revere's  lanterns  were  dis- 
played, most  people  will  sympathize  with  the  poet's 
own  preference.  It  is  pleasant  thus  to  have  enhanced 
the  atmosphere  of  historic  romance  already  attaching 
to  the  church.  The  poet  further  confesses  to  being 
unable  to  give  any  information  about  the  little  group 
of  people  who  followed  the  corporal  up  into  the 
church  steeple,  but  suggests  that  if  they  will  look 
up  the  whereabouts  of  the  Copley  portrait,  mentioned 
in  the  poem,  it  might  throw  some  light  on  their 
personality. 

From  all  this  we  gather  that  the  story  is  wholly 
fanciful  except  in  the  details  of  the  battle,  but  so  true 
is  it  to  the  feeling  of  the  time  that  it  has  a  genuinely 
moving  power,  rather  unusual  in  the  verse  of  Holmes. 
History  nowhere  brings  before  us  so  vividly  the  pan- 


152      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

orama  of  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill  as  this  poem  does, 
through  the  mouth  of  a  simple,  frightened  girl: 

"We  can  see  the  bright  steel  glancing  all  along  the  lines 

advancing, — 
Now  the  front  rank  fires  a  volley, — they  have  thrown 

away  their  shot; 
For  behind  their  earthwork  lying,  all  the  balls  above  them 

flying, 

Our  people  need  not  hurry ;   so  they  wait  and  answer 
not. 

"Then  the  corporai,  our  old  cripple  (he  would  swear  some- 
times and  tipple), — 
He  had  heard  the  bullets  whistle  (in  the  old  French  war) 

before, — 
Calls   out  in  words   of  jeering,  just   as   if  they  -all  were 

hearing, — 

And  his  wooden  leg  thumps  fiercely  on  the  dusty  belfry 
floor : — 

"  'Oh !  fire  away,  ye  villains,  and  earn  King  George's  shil- 

lin's, 

But  ye'll  waste  a  ton  of  powder  afore  a  "rebel"  falls; 
You  may  bang  the  dirt  and  welcome,  they're  as  safe  as 

Dan'l  Malcolm 

Ten  foot  beneath  the  gravestones  that  you've  splintered 
with  your  balls !' ' 

Breathless,  the  little  group  continues  to  watch. 
They  see  the  English  forces  repulsed,  and  think  the 
fight  is  over,  but  the  wise  old  corporal  knows  better. 
He  tells  them  to  wait  awhile.  Then  they  see  the  roofs 
of  Charlestown  blazing,  and  the  English  forces  march- 
ing up  again,  but, — 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      153 

"Again,    with   murderous    slaughter,    pelted    backwards    to 

the  water, 
Fly  Pigot's  running  heroes  and  the  frightened  braves  of 

Howe; 

And  we  shout,  'At  last  they're  done  for, 
It's  their  barges  they  have  run  for: 

They  are  beaten,  beaten,  beaten;  and  the  battle's  over 
now!'" 

Now  again  they  see  the  English  rally,  "With 
brazen  trumpets  blaring,  the  flames  behind  them  glar- 
ing, the  deadly  wall  before,  in  close  array  they  come," 
and,  fainting,  the  girl  sees  the  end  of  the  fight,— 

"How  they  surged  above  the  breastwork,  as  a  sea  breaks  over 

a  deck; 

How  driven, yet  scarce  defeated, our  worn-out  men  retreated, 
With  their  powder-horns  all  emptied,  like  the  swimmers  from 

a  wreck." 

The  girl  and  the  corporal  are  both  characterized 
with  a  swiftness  and  precision  which  enhance  the 
dramatic  intensity  of  the  situation.  Why,  one  won- 
ders, did  Holmes  not  turn  his  attention  more  fre- 
quently to  the  romantic  possibilities  of  American  his- 
tory? A  series  of  such  dramatic  pictures  would  have 
been  far  more  to  his  credit  than  the  interminable  after- 
dinner  poems  for  which  he  became  famous.  His 
gift  of  happy  humor  was  something  of  a  blight  upon 
his  finer  qualities  as  a  poet,  though  he  himself  writes 
in  one  of  the  most  amusing  of  his  poems,  that  since 
observing  once  the  effect  of  his  humor  upon  his  serv- 
ant, who,  from  excess  of  laughter,  tumbled  in  a  fit 


154      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

and  had  to  be  watched  for  ten  days  and  nights,— -"I 
never  dare  to  write  as  funny  as  I  can." 

Holmes  was,  however,  more  attracted  to  this  period 
of  history  than  the  other  poets.  He  has,  in  all,  six 
poems  bearing  upon  it :  the  lively  "Ballad  of  the  Bos- 
ton Tea  Party,"  the  "Ode  for  Washington's  Birth- 
day," "Under  Washington's  Elm,"  "Cambridge," 
"Lexington"  and  a  picture  of  Boston  Common  at  the 
time.  "The  Last  Leaf"  might  be  included,  for  it  is  a 
portrait  from  memory  of  Major  Thomas  Melville,  one 
of  the  men  who,  disguised  as  Indians,  had  helped  to 
throw  the  tea  overboard  upon  the  memorable  occasion 
of  the  "Boston  Tea  Party."  Dr.  Holmes  wrote  of  this 
poem  in  1894,  "I  have  lasted  long  enough  to  serve  as 
an  illustration  of  my  own  poem.  I  am  one  of  the  very 
last  of  the  leaves  which  still  cling  to  the  bough  of  life 
that  budded  in  the  spring  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
The  days  of  my  years  are  three  score  and  twenty,  and 
I  am  almost  half-way  up  the  steep  incline  which  leads 
me  toward  the  base  of  the  new  century,  so  near  to 
which  I  have  already  climbed."  Those  of  us  who  had 
the  honor  to  see  and  speak  with  Dr.  Holmes  in  these 
latter  days,  would  never  have  thought  to  describe  him 
in  the  terms  he  uses  for  the  old  Major.  Never  a 
handsome  man,  he  looked  much  the  same  as  he  does 
in  his  earlier  portraits,  when  the  features  alone  were 
considered,  and,  far  from  being  "sad  and  wan,"  he 
seemed  fairly  to  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  the  smiles 
showered  upon  him  by  adoring  ladies  surrounding  him 
at  those  afternoon  functions,  whose  object  is,  as  he 
himself  jocularly  said,  "To  giggle,  gabble,  gobble, 

git." 

In  seeing  Dr.  Holmes,  who  remembered  Melville, 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      155 

one  seemed  to  join  hands  with  a  remote  past.  This 
poem  is  so  much  of  a  favorite  that  it  hardly  needs  re- 
calling to  the  reader,  yet  he  may  find  it  pleasant  to 
come  upon  it  in  this  connection,  that  is,  as  a  link  with 
the  picturesque  and  historical  Tea  Party  of  Boston 
harbor : 

"I  saw  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his   cane. 


"They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  crier  on  his   round 

Through  the  town. 

"But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad   and   wan, 

And  he  shakes  his   feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

'They  are  gone.' 

"The  mossy  marbles  rest 
On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In   their   bloom, 
And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 


156      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"My  grandmamma  has   said — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long   ago — 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow; 


"But  now  his  nose  is  thin 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff; 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

"I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here ; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer! 

"And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  on  the  tree 

In  the  spring; 
Let  them  smile  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 
Where  I  cling." 

The  ballad  of  the  Tea  Party  is  a  less  convincing 
piece  of  art  than  the  Bunker  Hill  poem,  and  still  less 
can  be  said  for  his  poem  on  "Lexington,"  a  curious 
contrast  to  Whittier's,  on  the  same  theme.  The  lilt 
of  the  rhythm  gives  it  a  blithe  and  debonair  atmos- 
phere wholly  out  of  keeping  with  the  dignity  of  the 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      157 

subject,  and  suggesting  a  Watteau-like  scene  painted 
upon  a  Sevres  china  vase  rather  than  real  life : 

"Gayly  the  plume  of  the  horseman  was  dancing, 

Never  to  shadow  his  cold  brow  again ; 
Proudly  at  morning  the  war-steed  was  prancing, 
Reeking  and  panting,  he  droops  on  the  rein." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  any  lines  less  ex- 
pressive of  the  terror,  the  pathos  and  the  bravery 
which  that  day  brought  forth. 

A  picture  of  Boston  Common  in  1774  gives  an  in- 
teresting glimpse  of  this  famous  green,  when  the  siege 
of  Boston  was  in  progress: 

"The  streets  are  thronged  with  trampling  feet, 

The  northern  hill  is  ridged  with  graves, 
But  night  and  morn  the  drum  is  beat 

To  frighten  down  the  'rebel  knaves.' 
The  stones  of  King  Street  still  are  red, 

And  yet  the  bloody  red-coats  come; 
I  hear  their  pacing  sentry's   tread, 

The  click  of  steel,  the  tap  of  drum. 
And  over  all  the  open  green, 

Where  grazed  of  late  the  harmless  kine, 
The  cannon's  deepening  ruts  are  seen, 

The  war-horse  stamps,  the  bayonets  shine. 
The  clouds  are  dark  with  crimson  rain 

Above  the  murderous  hirelings'  den, 
And  soon  their  whistling  showers  shall  stain 

The  pipe-clayed  belts  of  Gage's  men." 

Lowell  has  a  thoughtful  and  poetic  word  to  say 
upon  the  graves  of  the  English  soldiers,  which,  en- 


158      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

closed  by  posts  and  chains,  still  attract  the  attention 
of  the  visitor  to  the  Concord  Bridge.  Probably  every 
one  who  looks  upon  the  spot  has  a  feeling  of  sym- 
pathy similar  to  that  which  must  have  inspired  Lowell 
when  he  wrote: 

"These  men  were  brave  enough,  and  true 

To  the  hired  soldier's  bull-dog  creed ; 
What  brought  them  here  they  never  knew, 

They  fought  as  suits  the  English  breed: 
They  came  three  thousand  miles,  and  died, 

To  keep  the  Past  upon  its  throne; 
Unheard  beyond  the  ocean  tide, 

Their  English  mother  made  her  moan." 

The  poem  might  well  have  ended  here.  But  Low- 
ell's mind  could  not  satisfy  itself  without  making 
excursions  into  related  regions  of  thought.  A  tribute 
to  the  English  soldiers  leads  him  to  the  contemplation 
of  the  American  heroes  and  their  graves,  and  of  what 
their  bravery,  in  contrast  with  the  English  bravery, 
had  meant: 

"Their  graves  had  voices ;  if  they  threw 

Dice  charged  with  fates  beyond  their  ken, 
Yet  to  their  instincts  they  were  true, 
And  had  the  genius  to  be  men." 

Lowell's  great  contributions  to  the  poetry  inspired 
by  this  second  epoch  of  America's  history  are  the  three 
Memorial  Odes.  They  stand  in  a  niche  quite  apart 
from  any  of  the  poems  so  far  mentioned.  They  are 
meditative,  philosophical,  prophetic,  in  fine,  criticisms 
of  life  expressed  in  poetic  symbols.  Emerson's  "Ode," 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      159 

of  course,  approaches  the  same  plane;  the  difference 
being  that  Emerson's  philosophy  is  of  the  spirit  rather 
than  of  the  mind ;  it  breaks  out  in  spontaneous  flames 
as  if  he  were  in  touch  with  some  divine  source  of  in- 
spiration; Lowell's  is,  on  the  other  hand,  the  efflores- 
cence of  a  well-trained  and  thoughtful  mind,  and 
seems  to  well  up  from  endless  founts  of  meditation. 

The  first  of  these  odes  was  written  for  the  one 
hundredth  anniversary  of  the  Concord  Fight,  April 
nineteenth,  1875,  almost  twenty  years  later  than  Em- 
erson's ode  for  July  Fourth,  and  fifty  years  later 
than  the  "Concord  Hymn."  This  ode  seems  to  us 
one  of  the  loveliest  things  ever  written  by  Lowell.  It 
was,  we  are  told,  almost  an  improvisation,  written  in 
two  days,  before  the  celebration.  This  may  account 
for  the  fact  that  it  has  a  directness,  a  unity,  an  emo- 
tional rush,  in  which  Lowell's  usual  meditativeness  of 
mood  becomes  vision.  The  subject  of  the  poem  is  not 
Freedom,  the  philosophical  abstraction,  but  Freedom, 
a  living,  joyous  goddess,  most  exquisitely  described  in 
the  first  stanzas  of  the  ode: 

"Who  cometh  over  the  hills, 

Her  garments  with  morning  sweet, 
The  dance  of  a  thousand  rills 

Making  music  before  her  feet? 
Her  presence  freshens  the  air; 

Sunshine  steals  light  from  her  face; 
The  leaden  footstep  of  Care 

Leaps  to  the  tune  of  her  pace; — 
Fairness  of  all  that  is  fair, 

Grace  at  the  heart  of  all  grace, 
Sweetener  of  hut  and  of  hall, 

Bringer  of  life  out  of  naught, 


160      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Freedom,  oh,  fairest  of  all 

The  daughters  of  Time  and  Thought! 


"Tell  me,  young  men,  have  ye  seen 
Creature  or  diviner  mien 
For  true  hearts  to  long  and  cry  for, 
Manly  hearts  to  live  and  die  for? 
What  hath  she  that  others  want? 
Brows  that  all  endearments  haunt, 
Eyes  that  make  it  sweet  to  dare, 
Smiles  that  cheer  untimely  death, 
Looks  that  fortify  despair, 
Tones  more  brave  than  trumpet's  breath; 
Tell  me,  maidens,  have  ye  known 
Household  charm  more  sweetly  rare, 
Grace  of  woman  ampler  blown, 
Modesty  more  debonair, 
Younger  heart  with  wit  full  grown? 


"Our  sweetness,  our  strength,  and  our  star, 
Our  hope,  our  joy,  and  our  trust, 
Who  lifted  us  out  of  the  dust, 
And  made  us  whatever  we  are !" 

Not  less  striking  are  the  lines  which  show  Free- 
dom's relation  to  Concord,  in  particular: 

"Why  cometh  She  hither  to-day 

To  this  low  village  of  the  plain, 
Far  from  the  Present's  loud  highway, 

From  Trade's  cool  heart  and  seething  brain? 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      161 

Why  fcometh  She?     She  was  not  far  away. 

Since  the  Soul  touched  it,  not  in  vain, 
'Tis  here  her  fondest  memories  stay. 
She  loves  yon  pine-bemurmured  ridge, 

Where  now  our  broad-browed  poet  sleeps, 
Dear  to  both  Englands  ;  near  him  he 
Who  wore  the  ring  of  Canace; 

But  most  her  heart  to  rapture  leaps 
Where  stood  that  era-parting  bridge, 
O'er  which  with  footfall  still  as  dew 
The  Old  Time  passed  into  the  New ; 

Where,  as  yon  stealthy  river  creeps, 
He  whispers  to  his  listening  weeds 
Tales  of  sublimest  homespun  deeds." 

To  those  who  know  the  locality  the  allusions  are 
fraught  with  meaning.  They  see  the  hallowed  spots 
upon  the  hillside  in  the  beautiful  cemetery  of  Sleepy 
Hollow,  which  mark  the  graves  of  Hawthorne,  called 
here  by  Lowell,  "the  broad-browed  poet,"  and  Tho- 
reau,  "who  wore  the  ring  of  Canace";  the  bridge  not 
far  from  the  "Old  Manse,"  which  crosses  the  stream 
where  the  great  fight  for  freedom  began,  and  where 
now  stands  the  statue  of  the  Minute  Man;  and  the 
"sluggish  stream,"  the  Concord  River,  become  so  fa- 
mous in  verse  and  prose,  as  well  as  in  history.  An 
echo  of  Emerson  occurs  in  the  lines,— 

"They  dreamed  not  what  a  die  was  cast 
With  that  first  answering  shot." 

The  goddess  now  falls  into  the  background  while 
the  poet's  thoughts  are  turned  to  the  contemplation 
of  the  sacrifices  made  in  the  consummation  of  these 


162      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"sublimest  homespun  deeds."  Then  doubts  enter  his 
mind.  Freedom  has  been  won,  but  shall  we  be  able 
to  keep  among  us  this  divine  goddess,  for  he  hears  her 
voice  as  a  mighty  wind  declaring  the  law  of  her 
being: 

"I,  Freedom,  dwell  with  Knowledge:  I  abide 
With  men  whom  dust  of  faction  cannot  blind 
To  the  slow  tracings  of  the  Eternal  Mind; 
With  men  by  culture  trained  and  fortified, 
Who  bitter  duty  to  sweet  lusts  prefer, 
Fearless  to  counsel  and  obey." 

The  passing  doubts  are  brushed  aside  and  the  poem 
ends  with  a  rapturous  outburst  of  faith.  Freedom 
shall  abide  with  us  forever: 

"Radiant,  calm-fronted,  as  when 
She  hallowed  that  April  day." 

The  poet  himself  preferred  the  second  of  these  odes, 
"Under  the  Old  Elm,"  principally,  perhaps,  because 
he  had  written  it  under  better  conditions,  "after  his 
college  duties  were  over,"  as  he  explains.  It  is  a 
penetrating  analysis  and  appreciation  of  Washing- 
ton's character,  but  does  not  possess  the  sheer  poetic 
beauty  of  the  first  ode.  Emerson's  experience  with 
this  poem  is  of  interest.  When  he  first  began  to  read 
it,  he  said:  "Why,  he  hasn't  got  his  genius  on";  but 
as  he  read  onward  he  presently  found  tears  in  his  eyes. 
In  other  eyes  than  Emerson's  the  poem  brought  forth 
tears.  It  ends  with  an  invocation  to  Virginia,  and 
when  read  at  Johns  Hopkins  University  by  the  poet, 
drew  tears,  Lowell  writes,  from  the  eyes  of  bitter 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      163 

secessionists,  "comparable  with  those  iron  ones  that 
rattled  down  Pluto's  cheek."  The  "tears"  in  both  these 
cases  must  have  grown  out  of  the  sentiment  expressed 
in  the  poem,  for  from  the  purely  poetic  point  of  view, 
Emerson's  first  impression  that  Lowell  had  not  his 
genius  on,  seems  to-day  a  just  estimate  of  the  poem 
as  a  whole,  albeit  there  are  inspired  moments  in  it: 

"Never  to  see  a  nation  born 

Hath  been  given  to  mortal  man, 
Unless  to  those  who,  on  that  summer  morn, 

Gazed,  silent,  when  the  great  Virginian 
Unsheathed  the  sword  whose  fatal  flash 
Shot  union  through  the  incoherent  clash 

Of  our  loose  atoms,  crystallizing  them 

Around  a  single  will's  unpliant  stem, 
And  making  purpose  of  emotion  rash. 
Out  of  the  scabbard  sprang,  as  from  its  womb, 

Nebulous  at  first,  but  hardening  to  a  star, 
Through  mutual  share  of  sunburst  and  of  gloom, 

The  common  faith  that  made  us  what  we  are." 

The  invocation  to  Virginia  is  splendid  in  sentiment, 
but  hardly  rises  above  rhymed  prose.  It  links  the  Rev- 
olution with  the  War  of  the  Rebellion,  showing  how 
inevitable  was  the  second  struggle  in  the  line  of  prog- 
ress toward  the  ideal  of  political  freedom  for  which 
this  nation  stands,  and  toward  the  highest  possible 
realizations  of  which  it  is  driven,  as  Emerson  declares, 
by  the  divine  principle  of  freedom  inherent  in  the  uni- 
verse. In  1875  the  human  injustices  of  the  war  were 
still  too  evident  for  any  clear  recognition  of  the  abid- 
ing divine  justice  underlying  it,  and  no  wonder  South- 
erners were  moved  by  this  invocation,  which  may  well 


164      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

have  done  much  to  heal  the  breach'  between  the  North' 
and  the  South: 


"Virginia  gave  us  this  imperial  man 

Cast  in  the  massive  mould 

Of  those  high-statured  ages  old, 
Which  into  grander  forms  our  mortal  metal  ran; 
She  gave  us  this  unblemished  gentleman: 

What  shall  we  give  her  back  but  love  and  praise, 

As  in  the  dear  old  unestranged  days 
Before  the  inevitable  wrong  began? 
Mother  of  states  and  undiminished  men, 

Thou  gavest  us  a  country,  giving  him, 

And  we  owe  alway  what  we  owed  thee  then: 
The  boon  thou  wouldst  have  snatched  from  us  agen 
Shines  as  before  with  no  abatement  dim. 

A  great  man's  memory  is  the  only  thing 
With  influence  to  outlast  the  present  whim 

And  bind  us  as  when  here  he  knit  our  golden  ring. 
All  of  him  that  was  subject  to  the  hours 
Lies  in  thy  soil  and  makes  it  part  of  ours: 
Across  more  recent  graves, 
Where  unresentful  Nature  waves 
Her  pennons  o'er  the  shot-ploughed  sod, 
Proclaiming  the  sweet  Truce  of  God, 
We  from  this  consecrated  plain  stretch  out 
Our  hands  as  free  from  after-thought  or  doujbt, 
As  here  the  united  North 
Poured  her  embrowned  manhood  forth 
In  welcome  of  our  saviour  and  thy  son. 
Through  battle  we  have  better  learned  thy  worth, 

The  long-breathed  valor  and  undaunted  will, 
Which,  like  his  own,  the  day's  disaster  done, 

Could,  safe  in  manhood,  suffer  and  be  still. 
Both  thine  and  ours  the  victory  hardly  won; 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      165 

If  ever  with  distempered  voice  or  pen 

We  have  misdeemed  thee,  here  we  take  it  back, 

And  for  the  dead  of  both,  don  common  black." 

The  third  ode  is  for  the  Fourth  of  July,  1876,  and 
has  the  spontaneous  emotional  quality  of  the  first. 
Contemplative  and  wise  as  Lowell  ever  is,  these  qual- 
ities are  here  transmuted  for  the  most  part  into  im- 
passioned art.  He  sees  the  vision  of  the  country  not 
as  Freedom,  but  as  Toil.  She  is  threatened  by  a 
ravenous  wolf: 

"And,  looking  now,  a  wolf  I  seemed  to  see 

Limned  in  that  vapor,  gaunt  and  hungry  bold, 
Threatening  her  charge :  resolve  in  every  limb, 

Erect  she  flamed  in  mail  of  sun-wove  gold, 
Penthesilea's  self  for  battle  dight; 

One  arm  uplifted,  braced  a  flickering  spear, 
And  one  her  adamantine  shield  made  light; 

Her  face,  helm-shadowed,  grew  a  thing  to  fear, 
And  her  fierce  eyes,  by  danger  challenged,  took 
Her  trident-sceptred  mother's  dauntless  look. 
'I  know  thee  now,  O  goddess-born !'  I  cried, 
And  turned  with  loftier  brow  and  firmer  stride ; 

For  in  that  spectral  cloud-work  I  had  seen 
Her  image,  bodied  forth,  by  love  and  pride, 
The  fearless,  the  benign,  the  mother-eyed, 

The  fairer  world's  toil-consecrated  queen." 

She,  this  Goddess  of  Toil,  is  the  symbol  of  democ- 
racy, born  in  a  great  seven-years'  struggle : 

"Stormy  the  day  of  her  birth: 

Was   she  not  born   of   the   strong, 
She,  the  last  ripeness  of  earth, 


166      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Beautiful,  prophesied  long? 
Stormy  the  days  of  her  prime: 

Hers  are  the  pulses  that  beat 
Higher  for  perils  sublime, 

Making  them  fawn  at  her  feet. 
Was  she  not  born  of  the  strong? 

Was  she  not  born  of  the  wise? 
Daring  and  counsel  belong 

Of  right  to  her  confident  eyes: 
Human  and  motherly  they, 

Careless  of  station  or  race: 
Hearken!  her  children  to-day 

Shout  for  the  joy  of  her  face." 

For  this  new  goddess  there  shall  be,  as  Whitman 
expresses  the  same  thought,  in  his  "Song  of  the  Uni- 
versal," grandeurs  all  her  own,  not  of  the  past,  but 
specific  faiths  and  amplitudes,  absorbing,  compre- 
hending all : 

"No  praises  of  the  past  are  hers, 

No  fames  by  hallowing  time  caressed, 
No  broken  arch  that  ministers 

To  Time's  sad  instinct  in  the  breast. 


"She  builds  not  on  the  ground,  but  in  the  mind, 
Her  open-hearted  palaces." 

Lowell  is  too  profound  an  observer  of  humanity 
and  of  human  institutions  not  to  perceive  the  dangers 
lurking  in  the  worship  of  the  Queen  of  Toil.  Her 
rule  may  lead  to  a  wholly  materialized  civilization,  in 
which  art  shall  cease  to  exist.  It  may  be  found  that 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      167 

we  have  arrived  too  late  in  the  world's  life,  and  shall 
be  "foreclosed  of  beauty" : 

"Oh,  better  far  the  briefest  hour 
Of  Athens  self-consumed,  whose  plastic  power 
Hid  Beauty  safe  from  Death  in  words  or  stone ; 
Of  Rome,  fair  quarry  where  those  eagles  crowd 
Whose  fulgurous  vans  about  the  world  blow* 
Triumphant  storm  and  seeds  of  polity; 
Of  Venice,  fading  o'er  her  shipless  sea, 
Last  iridescence  of  a  sunset  cloud ; 
Than  this  inert  prosperity, 
This  bovine  comfort  in  the  sense  alone!" 

The  poet  touches  upon  even  worse  evils  in  the  po- 
litical conditions  of  the  country: 

"Is  this  debating  club  where  boys  dispute, 
And  wrangle  o'er  their  stolen  fruit, 

The  Senate,  erewhile  cloister  of  the  few, 
Where  Clay  once  flashed  and  Webster's  cloudy  brow 

Brooded  those  bolts  of  thought  that  all  the  horizon  knew  ?" 

Over  all  doubts  in  the  success  of  democracy,  his 
optimism  finally  triumphs.  Nothing  can  alter  his  love 
of  country  nor  his  faith  that  it  is  watched  over  still 
by  the  "God  of  our  Fathers": 

"For,  O  my  country,  touched  by  thee, 

The  gray  hairs  gather  back  their  gold, — 

Thy  thought  sets  all  my  pulses  free, 
The  heart  refuses  to  be  old; 

The  love  is  all  that  I  can  see. 


168      THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Not  to   thy   natal-day   belong 
Time's  prudent  doubt  or  age's  wrong, 
But  gifts  of  gratitude  and  song: 
Unsummoned  crowd  the  thankful  words, 

As  sap  in  spring-time  floods  the  tree, 
Foreboding  the  return  of  birds, 

For  all  that  thou  hast  been  to  me." 

In  these  three  odes  the  poetry  inspired  by  the  Rev- 
olution has  unquestionably  reached  its  most  profound 
imaginative  expression.  Whittier  has  told  us  a  story ; 
Longfellow,  and  Holmes  at  his  best,  have  given  us 
vivid  pictures  of  events;  Bryant  has  refreshed  our 
memory  with  an  impressionistic  sketch;  Emerson  has 
carried  us  far  up  into  the  realms  of  unknown  cosmic 
forces;  but  Lowell  has  unfolded  for  us  in  a  series  of 
poetic  visions,  interspersed  with  wisdom's  soberer 
probing,  the  intricacies  of  the  philosophy  of  history. 

These  poems  ring  true  to  Matthew  Arnold's  defi- 
nition of  poetry,  in  its  most  literal  sense;  they  are 
"A  Criticism  of  Life."  What  the  ideal  of  freedom 
includes,  what  dangers  its  objective  aspect  in  practical 
democracy  has  to  fear,  what  the  worth  of  a  great  per- 
sonality means  in  the  moulding  of  events — these  are 
the  all-embracing  historical  questions  brought  before 
us  by  Lowell.  His  fears  and  doubts  he  dismisses  in 
the  same  spirit  as  Robert  Browning.  He,  too,  was 
one  who— 

"Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 

Never  dreamed,  though  right  were  worsted,  wrong  would 

triumph, 

Held,  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better,  sleep  to 
wake." 


8 
I 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      169 

The  anti-slavery  agitation  culminating  in  the  war 
for  the  Union  was  the  dominating  political  issue  in  the 
history  of  our  country  for  thirty  years  and  more. 
From  the  time  when  William  Lloyd  Garrison,  in 
1831,  declared,  in  the  face  of  all  opposition,  "I  am  in 
earnest — I  will  not  equivocate — I  will  not  excuse — I 
will  not  retreat  a  single  inch — and  I  will  be  heard"  to 
the  time  of  Lincoln's  emancipation  proclamation,  in 
1863,  the  freeing  of  the  slave  was  the  all-absorbing 
topic  of  controversy.  None  of  our  group  of  New 
England  poets  could  escape  participation  in  the  fer- 
ment of  these  years,  which  fell  within  the  maturity  of 
them  all.  It  is  not  surprising  that  their  tempera- 
mental differences  should  give  rise  to  many  variations 
of  opinion  among  them  in  their  attitade  toward  the 
political  problems  then  confronting  the  Nation,  but 
upon  the  fundamental  principle  at  stake  in  the  contest 
—the  iniquity  of  slavery — they  were  all  at  one,  a  fact 
of  which  New  England  may  be  duly  proud. 

The  poet  most  thoroughly  identified  with  the  move- 
ment for  the  abolition  of  slavery  was  Whittier,  and 
in  consequence  of  this,  we  may  gather  from  his  anti- 
slavery  poems  more  pictures  of  the  actual  events  of 
the  time  than  from  any  of  the  other  poets.  He  was 
among  the  choice  few  of  recognized  intellectual  stand- 
ing to  gather  about  the  intrepid  Garrison  when  he 
founded  his  anti-slavery  sheet,  The  Liberator,  and  he, 
as  well  as  Garrison,  had  the  honor  to  be  mobbed  for 
his  opinions. 

Whittier's  active  entrance  into  the  anti-slavery 
ranks  was  announced  by  the  publication  of  his  pam- 
phlet, "Justice  and  Expediency."  This  pamphlet 
caused  so  great  a  stir  in  the  South  that  one  man,  Drt 


170      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Reuben  Crandall,  was  thrown  into  prison  for  lending 
it  to  a  friend  to  read.  His  health  was  impaired  by 
the  imprisonment  and  he  died.  Whittier  refers  to 
him  in  his  poem,  "Astrsea  at  the  Capitol": 

"Beside  me  gloomed  the  prison-cell 
Where  wasted  one  in  slow  decline 
For  uttering  simple  words  of  mine, 
And  loving  freedom  all  too  well." 

Whittier  brought  up  strong  arguments  against  the 
Colonization  Society,  whose  scheme  of  philanthropy 
involved  the  sending  of  all  free  blacks  to  Africa.  This 
society  was  particularly  approved  of  by  the  churches, 
which  regarded  it  as  an  excellent  means  of  carrying 
the  Gospel  into  the  benighted  country  of  Africa 
through  colored  missionaries.  Seemingly  a  humane 
method  of  providing  for  the  free  negroes,  it  was  found 
actually  to  militate  against  the  cause  of  anti-slavery. 
When  Garrison  first  denounced  the  Colonization  So- 
ciety as  the  "handmaid  of  slavery,"  it  awakened  a  tu- 
mult of  indignation  in  the  churches.  Whittier's  pam- 
phlet, which  supported,  with  much  knowledge  and 
sound  argument,  Garrison's  point  of  view,  added  fuel 
to  the  flame.  Feeling  was  still  further  irritated  by  the 
arrival  in  Boston,  upon  the  invitation  of  Garrison,  of 
an  Englishman,  George  Thompson,  who  had  helped 
to  secure  the  abolition  of  slavery  in  all  the  English 
colonies.  He  was  young  and  enthusiastic,  and,  ac- 
cording to  Garrison,  was  a  speaker  of  unusual  elo- 
quence. At  first  he  was  well  received,  for  the  general 
attitude  of  New  England  had  been  in  favor  of  the 
abolishment  of  slavery  some  day  when  it  should  be 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      171 

quite  convenient.  But  the  feeling  had  been  growing 
that  the  anti-slavery  cause  was  at  issue  with  the 
churches,  on  the  one  hand,  and  that  it  jeopardized 
business  relations  with  the  South,  on  the  other  hand. 
If  established  religion  and  established  business  are 
both  in  danger,  what  is  there  left  to  the  respectable 
members  of  a  community  but  mob-violence!  Those 
who  hold  for  the  true  principles  of  religion  in  the 
exercise  of  simple  human  justice  have  little  chance 
of  carrying  immediate  conviction;  thus  it  was  that 
the  conservative  spirit  of  New  England,  which,  three 
hundred  years  before,  had  persecuted  in  the  name 
of  religion,  again  broke  forth,  and  persecuted  now 
in  the  name  of  religion  and  business.  Distressing  as 
the  earlier  persecutions  were,  we  are  in  the  habit  of 
regarding  them  as  belonging  to  a  remote  past,  and 
partly  excusable  on  the  ground  of  lack  of  develop- 
ment, but  it  is  difficult  to  comprehend  that  within  the 
memory  of  people  living  to-day  such  a  hand-bill  as 
the  following  could  be  posted  throughout  the  city 
of  Boston: 

"THOMPSON, 
"The  Abolitionist. 

"That  infamous  foreign  scoundrel,  Thompson,  will  hold 
forth  this  afternoon,  at  the  Liberator  office,  No.  48  Wash- 
ington Street.  The  present  is  a  fair  opportunity  for  the 
friends  of  the  Union  to  snake  Thompson  out!  It  will  be  a 
contest  between  the  Abolitionists  and  the  friends  of  the  Un- 
ion. A  purse  of  $100  has  been  raised  by  a  number  of  patri- 
otic citizens  to  reward  the  individual  who  shall  first  lay 
violent  hands  on  Thompson,  so  that  he  may  be  brought  to 
the  tar  kettle  before  dark.  Friends  of  the  Union,  be  vigilant ! 

"Boston,  Wednesday,  12  o'clock." 


172      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Still  more  amazing  is  it  to  be  told  that  the  daily 
papers  boasted  of  the  social  distinction  of  the  mob 
which  collected  to  carry  this  plan  out.  It  was  de- 
scribed as  a  "broadcloth  mob,"  led  by  "gentlemen  of 
property  and  standing,"  and  among  it  were  rich  mer- 
chants and  lawyers,  and  people  who  moved  in  the  Jbest 
society.  His  friends  having  thought  it  wise  to  keep 
Thompson  from  the  meeting,  the  "broadcloth  mob" 
seized  upon  Garrison  instead.  With  a  rope  around 
his  body,  bareheaded,  with  torn  clothes,  he  was  hustled 
through  Wilson's  Lane  to  State  Street.  It  was 
planned  to  take  him  to  the  Common  and  the  Frog 
Pond,  for  a  coat  of  tar  and  feathers,  when  he  was 
rescued  by  the  police,  under  Mayor  Lyman,  and  shel- 
tered in  the  second  story  of  the  Old  State  House,  then 
the  City  Hall.  From  there  he  was  driven  to  Leverett 
Street  Jail  for  safety.*  Whittier,  among  others, 
called  upon  him  at  once.  The  next  day  he  was  brought 
before  a  justice,  and,  no  charge  being  brought  against 
him,  he  was  dismissed. 

Whittier  himself  witnessed  this  mob.  He  was  at 
the  time  sitting  in  his  seat  in  the  State  House,  when, 
hearing  of  the  disturbance,  and  knowing  that  his  sister 
was  at  the  meeting,  he  hurried  thither  to  protect  her. 
His  account  of  the  affair  as  an  eyewitness  brings  it 
vividly  before  us:  "I  found  the  street  thronged  and 
noisy  with  turbulent  respectability  and  unwashed  ras- 
cality. I  was  anxious  for  my  young  sister,  who,  I 
knew,  was  in  the  women's  anti-slavery  meeting;  but 
I  heard  that  the  ladies  had  all  left  and  were  safe.  The 


*See  "Boston  Anti-Slavery  Days,"  by  Wm.  Lloyd  Garrison,  Jr. 
(Printed  by  the  Bostonian  Soc'y.) 


STATUE  OF  WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON 
COMMONWEALTH  AVENUE,  BOSTON 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      173 

fury  of  the  mob  seemed  to  be  directed  against  George 
Thompson,  but  failing  to  find  him,  they  seized  upon 
Garrison.  I  heard  their  shout  of  exultation,  and 
caught  a  glimpse  of  their  victim  just  as  he  was  res- 
cued and  driven  off  to  Leverett  Street  Jail.  Thither 
Samuel  J.  May  and  myself  followed,  and  visited  him 
in  prison." 

This  was  the  climax  of  a  series  of  mob  experiences 
through  which  Thompson  had  passed,  and  in  one  of 
them  Whittier  came  in  for  his  share  of  mob  violence. 
Whittier  had  been  harboring  Thompson  for  some 
time  in  his  home  at  Haverhill,  and  from  there  ac- 
companied him  upon  a  visit  to  Nathaniel  P.  Rogers, 
a  prominent  abolitionist  of  Concord,  New  Hampshire. 
Various  accounts  of  the  events  which  followed  have 
been  given,  among  which  that  of  their  friend,  Mrs. 
Cartland,  is  the  most  direct  and  explicit: 

"On  their  way  they  stopped  for  the  night  in  Con- 
cord at  the  house  of  George  Kent,  who  was  a  brother- 
in-law  of  Rogers.  After  they  had  gone  on  their  way, 
Kent  attempted  to  make  preparations  for  an  anti- 
slavery  meeting,  to  be  held  when  they  should  return. 
There  was  furious  excitement,  and  neither  church, 
chapel,  nor  hall  could  be  hired  for  the  purpose.  On 
their  arrival,  Whittier  walked  out  with  a  friend,  in  the 
twilight,  leaving  Thompson  in  the  house,  and  soon 
found  himself  and  friend  surrounded  by  a  mob  of 
several  hundred  persons,  who  assailed  them  with 
stones  and  bruised  them  somewhat  severely.  They 
took  refuge  in  the  house  of  Colonel  Kent,  who,  though 
not  an  abolitionist,  protected  them  and  baffled  the 
mob.  From  thence,  Whittier  made  his  way  with  some 
difficulty  to  George  Kent's,  where  Thompson  was. 


174      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

The  mob  soon  surrounded  the  house  and  demanded 
that  Thompson  and  'the  Quaker'  should  be  given 
up.  Through  a  clever  stratagem  the  mob  was  de- 
coyed away  for  a  while,  but,  soon  discovering  the 
trick,  it  returned,  reinforced  with  muskets  and  a  can- 
non, and  threatened  to  blow  up  the  house  if  the  aboli- 
tionists were  not  surrendered. 

"A  small  company  of  anti-slavery  men  and  women 
had  met  that  evening  at  George  Kent's.  All  agreed 
that  the  lives  of  Thompson  and  Whittier  were  in 
danger,  and  advised  that  an  effort  should  be  made 
to  escape.  The  mob  filled  the  street  a  short  distance 
below  the  gate  leading  to  Kent's  house.  A  horse  was 
quietly  harnessed  in  the  stable,  and  was  led  out  with 
the  vehicle  under  the  shadow  of  the  house,  where 
Whittier  and  Thompson  stood  ready.  It  was  bright 
moonlight,  and  they  could  see  the  gun-barrels  gleam- 
ing in  the  street  below  them.  The  gate  was  suddenly 
opened,  the  horse  was  started  at  a  furious  gallop,  and 
the  two  friends  drove  off  amidst  the  yells  and  shots 
of  the  infuriated  crowd." 

Whittier's  biographer,  Mr.  Pickard,  adds  rotten 
eggs  to  the  missiles  which  were  hurled  at  Whittier. 
His  coat,  he  avers,  could  never  be  cleansed  from  the 
stains,  and  was  kept  as  a  relic  until  after  the  war, 
when  it  was  sent  along  with  other  clothing  to  the 
needy  freedmen. 

Such  were  the  scenes  in  which  Whittier,  the  peace- 
loving  man,  was  called  to  take  a  part  upon  his  es- 
pousal of  the  anti-slavery  cause.  In  the  words  of  T. 
W.  Higginson,  his  "Quaker  training  was  tested,  but 
it  rang  true.  He  would  not  arm  himself,  but  he  did 
not  flinch  where  others  were  arming." 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      175 

It  was  Garrison  who  first  awakened  in  Whittier  the 
desire  to  serve  the  cause  of  anti-slavery,  and  to  Gar- 
rison was  dedicated  his  first  poem  in  a  cause  which 
was  to  be  his  inspiration  later  for  most  of  his  poems 
during  four  years.  This  poem  had  been  printed  in 
November,  1832.  The  following  year  Garrison  asked 
Whittier  to  go  as  one  of  the  delegates  from  Massa- 
chusetts to  the  Anti- Slavery  Convention  in  Philadel- 
phia, and  at  this  convention,  which  formed  the  Amer- 
ican Anti- Slavery  Society,  this  poem  of  Whittier's, 
"To  William  Lloyd  Garrison,"  was  read  by  Lewis 
Tappan.  It  is  now  of  peculiar  interest  because  of 
its  expression  of  a  perfect  trust,  which  subsequent 
developments  weakened  in  Whittier's  relations  with 
Garrison.  The  following  stanzas  show  what  Whit- 
tier's attitude  toward  him  was  at  the  beginning  of  his 
career : 

"I  love  thee  with  a  brother's  love, 

I  feel  ray  pulses  thrill, 
To  mark  thy  spirit  soar  above 

The  cloud  of  human  ill. 
My  heart  hath  leaped  to  answer  thine, 

And  echo  back  thy  words, 
As  leaps  the  warrior's  at  the  shine 

And  flash  of  kindred  swords ! 

"They  tell  me  thou  art  rash  and  vain, 

A  searcher  after  fame;     . 
That  thou  art  striving  but  to  gain 

A  long-enduring  name ; 
That  thou  hast  nerved  the  Afric's  hand 

And  steeled  the  Afric's  heart, 
To  shake  aloft  his  vengeful  brand, 

And  rend  his  chain  apart. 


176      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"Have  I  not  known  thee  well,  and  read 

Thy  mighty  purpose  long  ? 
And  watched  the  trials  which  have  made 

Thy  human  spirit  strong? 
And  shall  the  slanderer's  demon  breath 

Avail  with  one  like  me, 
To  dim  the  sunshine  of  my  faith 

And  earnest  trust  in  thee? 

"Go  on,  the  dagger's  point  may  glare 

Amid  the  pathway's  gloom ; 
The  fate  which  sternly  threatens  there 

Is  glorious  martyrdom ! 
Then  onward  with  a  martyr's  zeal, 

And  wait  thy  sure  reward 
When  man  to  man  no  more  shall  kneel, 

And  God  alone  be  Lord!" 

Although  Garrison  and  Whittier  were  always  per- 
sonally attached  to  each  other,  and  upon  more  than 
one  occasion  bore  witness  to  each  other's  service  in 
the  highest  terms,  they  found  themselves  in  opposite 
wings  of  the  anti-slavery  party.  It  is  impossible  to 
unravel  to-day  all  the  varying  shades  of  opinion, 
which  multiplied  as  time  went  on,  in  regard  to  the 
proper  methods  of  dealing  with  the  complex  prob- 
lems of  slavery,  but  there  are  a  few  radical  differ- 
ences which  stand  out  clearly  as  the  main  causes  for 
division  in  the  ranks.  Garrison,  a  nonresistant,  stood 
for  disunion  and  non-voting,  while  Whittier,  also 
nonresistant,  stood  for  the  Union  and  the  peaceable 
attainment  of  righteous  ends  in  the  immediate  emanci- 
pation of  the  slaves  by  means  of  the  ballot  and 
education,  of  which  petitioning  Congress  might  be  re- 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      177 

garded  as  one  form.  Consequently  Whittier  voted 
for  the  men  of  his  political  party  as  long  as  there  was 
the  least  chance  of  their  helping  the  cause;  he  helped 
disseminate  the  right  principles  by  writing  letters  to 
the  Nation's  officials,  by  contributing  articles  to  maga- 
zines, by  attending  anti-slavery  conventions,  and  by 
helping  to  send  petitions  to  Congress.  Upon  one  oc- 
casion, he  wrote  to  the  Congressman,  Caleb  Gushing: 
"I  send  thee  three  or  four  petitions,  and  there's  'more 
a-comin'.  We  need  not  tell  thee  that  we  want  a  hear- 
ing before  Congress,  and  that  we  must  have  it  some- 
how or  other.  The  next  year  we  shall  send  double 
the  number,  and  so  on,  until  the  united  voice  of  New 
England  thunders  upon  the  ear  of  Congress." 

After  all  is  said  of  his  invaluable  assistance  to  the 
cause,  his  poetry  is  still  to  be  reckoned  with  as  one 
of  his  most  effective  weapons  of  education.  One  of 
the  offices  of  painting,  according  to  Robert  Browning, 
is  that  it  makes  us  see  what  we  may  have  passed  a 
hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see.  The  same  is  true  of 
poetry.  A  newspaper  report  is  soon  forgotten,  but 
let  a  poet  light  up  an  event  with  his  imagination  and 
the  picture  stays,  while  quietly  but  steadily  it  works 
upon  the  better  nature  of  those  who  read  it. 

The  subjects  which  Whittier  treats  in  his  anti- 
slavery  poems  cover  most  of  the  iniquitous  aspects  of 
the  struggle  which  bade  fair  to  rend  the  Nation  in 
pieces.  His  indignation  breaks  out  against  the  atti- 
tude taken  by  the  churches  in  "The  Pastoral  Letter." 
A  deep  impression  had  been  produced  by  a  public 
lecture  given  in  Massachusetts  by  Angelina  and 
Sarah  Grimke,  two  women  from  South  Carolina,  who 
told  of  the  evils  attending  slavery.  At  a  meeting  held 


178      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

in  Brookfield,  June  27,  1837,  the  General  Association 
of  Congregational  Ministers  decided  to  issue  a  Pas- 
toral Letter,  demanding  that  "the  perplexed  and  agi- 
tating subjects  which  are  now  common  amongst 
us  should  not  be  forced  upon  any  church  as  matters 
for  debate,  at  the  hazard  of  alienation  and  division." 
These  good  men  were  also  much  exercised  over  the 
dangers  which  seemed  "to  threaten  the  female  char- 
acter with  widespread  and  permanent  injury."  Whit- 
tier  wields  no  mean  powers  of  sarcasm  at  the  expense 
of  this  exercise  of  priestly  prerogative,  which  he 
calls 

"A  'Pastoral  Letter,'  grave  and  dull ; 

Alas !  in  hoofs  and  horns  and  features, 
How  different  is  your  Brookfield  bull 
From  him  who  bellows  from  St.  Peter's !" 

He  goes  on  to  compare  their  puny  efforts  with 
those  of  their  forefathers : 

"Oh,  glorious  days,  when  Church  and  State 

Were  wedded  by  your  spiritual  fathers ! 
And  on  submissive  shoulders  sat 

Your  Wilsons  and  your  Cotton  Mathers. 
No  vile  'itinerant'  then  could  mar 

The  beauty  of  your  tranquil  Zion, 
But  at  his  peril  of  the  scar 

Of  hangman's  whip  and  branding  iron. 

"Then,  wholesome  laws  relieved  the  Church 

Of  heretic  and  mischief-maker, 
And  priest  and  bailiff  joined  in  search, 
By  turns,  of  Papist,  witch,  and  Quaker ! 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      179 

The  stocks  were  at  each  church's  door, 
The  gallows  stood  on  Boston  Common, 

A  Papist's  ears  the  pillory  bore, — 
The  gallows-rope,  a  Quaker  woman ! 

"Your  fathers  dealt  not  as  ye  deal 

With  'non-professing'  frantic  teachers ; 
They  bored  the  tongue  with  red-hot  steel, 

And  flayed  the  backs  of  'female  preachers.' 
Old  Hampton,  had  her  fields  a  tongue, 

And  Salem's  streets  could  tell  their  story, 
Of  fainting  woman  dragged  along, 

Gashed  by  the  whip  accursed  and  gory ! 

"And  will  ye  ask  me,  why  this  taunt 

Of  memories  sacred  from  the  scorner? 
And  why  with  reckless  hand  I  plant 

A  nettle  on  the  graves  ye  honor? 
Not  to  reproach  New  England's  dead 

This  record  from  the  past  I  summon, 
Of  manhood  to  the  scaffold  led, 

And  suffering  and  heroic  woman. 

"No,  for  yourselves  alone,  I  turn 

The  pages  of  intolerance  over, 
That,  in  their  spirit,  dark  and  stern, 

Ye  haply  may  your  own  discover ! 
For,  if  ye  claim  the  'pastoral  right' 

To  silence  Freedom's  voice  of  warning, 
And  from  your  precincts  shut  the  light 

Of  Freedom's  day  around  ye  dawning; 


"If  then  ye  would,  with  puny  hands, 
Arrest  the  very  work  of  Heaven, 


180      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

And  bind  anew  the  evil  bands 

Which  God's  right  arm  of  power  hath  riven  ; 

"What  marvel  that,  in  many  a  mind, 

Those  darker  deeds  of  bigot  madness 
Are  closely  with  your  own  combined, 
Yet  less  in  anger  than  in  sadness?" 


''But  ye,  who  scorn  the  thrilling  tale 

Of  Carolina's  high-souled  daughters, 
Which  echoes  here  the  mournful  wail 

Of  sorrow  from  Edisto's  waters, 
Close  while  ye  may  the  public  ear, 

With  malice  vex,  with  slander  wound  them, 
The  pure  and  good  shall  throng  to  hear, 

And  tried  and  manly  hearts  surround  them." 

The  ministers  were  not  the  only  people  in  New 
England  who  demanded  the  suppression  of  free 
speech.  At  a  pro-slavery  meeting  in  Faneuil  Hall, 
August  21,  1835,  the  citizens  had  made  the  same 
demand  lest  it  should  endanger  the  foundation  of 
commercial  society.  Upon  this  occasion  Whittier 
wrote  his  "Stanzas  for  the  Times,"  wherein  the  vials 
of  his  wrath  were  poured  out  with  the  utmost  fierce- 
ness of  which  he  was  capable  in  such  outbursts  as 
these : 

"Shall  outraged  Nature  cease  to  feel? 

Shall  Mercy's  tears  no  longer  flow? 
Shall  ruffian  threats  of  cord  and  steel, 

The  dungeon's  gloom,  the  assassin's  blow, 
Turn  back  the  spirit  roused  to  save 
The  Truth,  our  Country,  and  the  slave? 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      181 

"Shall  tongue  be  mute,  when  deeds  are  wrought 
Which  well  might  shame  extremest  hell? 

Shall  freeman  lock  the  indignant  thought? 
Shall  Pity's  bosom  cease  to  swell? 

Shall  Honor  bleed? — shall  Truth  succumb? 

Shall  pen,  and  press,  and  soul  be  dumb? 

"No;  by  each  spot  of  haunted  ground, 

Where  Freedom  weeps  her  children's  fall ; 

By  Plymouth's  rock,  and  Bunker's  mound; 
By  Griswold's  stained  and  shattered  wall; 

By  Warren's  ghost,  by  Langdon's  shade; 

By  all  the  memories  of  our  dead! 

"By  their  enlarging  souls,  which  burst 
The  bands  and  fetters  round  them  set ; 

By  the  free  Pilgrim  spirit  nursed 
Within  our  inmost  bosoms,  yet, 

By  all  above,  around,  below, 

Be  ours  the  indignant  answer, — No !" 

Whittier  has  exercised  every  poetic  faculty  with 
which  he  was  endowed  in  the  writing  of  these  anti- 
slavery  poems. 

In  "The  Slave  Ships"  he  had  a  subject  as  grue- 
some as  that  of  "The  Ancient  Mariner,"  and  into  the 
telling  of  the  story  he  has  thrown  a  weird  horror  so 
terrible  that  it  cannot  be  read  without  awakening  a 
deep  sense  of  pain.  It  seems  to  twist  itself  into  a 
symbol  of  all  the  monstrous  evils  connected  not  only 
with  slavery,  but  with  those  that  have  come  in  the 
wake  of  its  abolition,  in  this  country,  and  grins  at  us 
like  a  skull  and  cross-bones  from  the  grave  of  the 
buried  past. 

The  story  is  of  two  slave-ships,  one  French  and  one 


182      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Spanish.  Whittier  found  his  material  in  the  speech 
of  M.  Benjamin  Constant,  in  the  French  Chamber  of 
Deputies,  June  17,  1820,  and  also  in  the  Bibliotheque 
Ophthalmologique  for  November,  1819.  It  is  as 
follows : 

"The  French  ship  Le  Rodeur,  with  a  crew  of 
twenty-two  men,  and  with  one  hundred  and  sixty 
negro  slaves,  sailed  from  Bonny,  in  Africa,  April, 
1819.  On  approaching  the  line,  a  terrible  malady 
broke  out, — an  obstinate  disease  of  the  eyes, — con- 
tagious, and  altogether  beyond  the  resources  of  medi- 
cine. It  was  aggravated  by  the  scarcity  of  water 
among  the  slaves  (only  half  a  wine-glass  per  day  be- 
ing allowed  to  an  individual) ,  and  by  the  extreme  im- 
purity of  the  air  in  which  they  breathed.  By  the 
advice  of  the  physician,  they  were  brought  upon  deck 
occasionally;  but  some  of  the  poor  wretches,  locking 
themselves  in  each  other's  arms,  leaped  overboard,  in 
the  hope,  which  so  universally  prevails  among  them, 
of  being  swiftly  transported  to  their  own  homes  in 
Africa.  To  check  this  the  captain  ordered  several, 
who  were  stopped  in  the  attempt,  to  be  shot  or  hanged 
before  their  companions.  The  disease  extended  to  the 
crew,  and  one  after  another  were  smitten  with  it,  un- 
til only  one  remained  unaffected.  Yet  even  this 
dreadful  condition  did  not  preclude  calculation:  to 
save  the  expense  of  supporting  slaves  rendered  un- 
saleable, and  to  obtain  grounds  for  a  claim  against 
the  underwriters,  thirty-six  of  the  negroes  having  be- 
come blind,  were  thrown  into  the  sea  and  drowned. 

"In  the  midst  of  their  dreadful  fears  lest  the  soli- 
tary individual  whose  sight  remained  unaffected 
should  also  be  seized  with  the  malady,  a  sail  was  dis- 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      183 

covered.  It  was  the  Spanish  slaver  Leon.  The  same 
disease  had  been  there;  and,  horrible  to  tell,  all  the 
crew  had  become  blind!  Unable  to  assist  each  other, 
the  vessels  parted.  The  Spanish  ship  has  never  since 
been  heard  of.  The  Rodeur  reached  Guadaloupe  on 
the  21st  of  June;  the  only  man  who  escaped  the  dis- 
ease and  has  thus  been  enabled  to  steer  the  slaver  into 
port,  caught  it  in  three  days  after  it  arrived." 

The  brutality  depicted  in  the  first  part  of  the  poem 
gives  way  toward  the  end  to  a  scene  of  pathetic  horror: 

"  'A  storm,'  spoke  out  the  gazer, 

'Is  gathering  and  at  hand; 
Curse  on  't,  I'd  give  my  other  eye 

For  one  firm  rood  of  land.' 
And  then  he  laughed,  but  only 

His  echoed  laugh  replied, 
For  the  blinded  and  the  suffering 

Alone  were  at  his  side. 

"Night  settled  on  the  waters, 

And  on  a  stormy  heaven, 
While  fiercely  on  that  lone  ship's  track 

The  thunder  gust  was  driven. 
'A  sail!— thank  God,  a  sail!' 

And  as  the  helmsman  spoke, 
Up  through  the  stormy  murmur 

A  shout  of  gladness  broke. 

"Down  came  the  stranger  vessel, 

Unheeding  on  her  way, 
So  near  that  on  the  slaver's  deck 

Fell  off  her  driven  spray, 
'Ho!  for  the  love  of  mercy, 

We're  perishing  and  blind!' 


184      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

A  wail  of  utter  agony 

Came  back  upon  the  wind: 

"  'Help  us !  for  we  are  stricken 

With  blindness,  every  one ; 
Ten  days  we've  floated  fearfully, 

Unnoting  star  or  sun. 
Our  ship's  the  slaver  Leon, — 

We've  but  a  score  on  board ; 
Our  slaves  are  all  gone  over, — 

Help,  for  the  love  of  God!' 

"On  livid  brows  of  agony 

The  broad  red  lightning  shone ; 
But  the  roar  of  wind  and  thunder 

Stifled  the  answering  groan ; 
Wailed  from  the  broken  waters 

A  last  despairing  cry, 
As,  kindling  in  the  stormy  light, 

The  stranger  ship  went  by." 

In  "The  Hunters  of  Men,"  directed  against  the 
Colonization  Society  for  its  opposition  to  emancipa- 
tion unless  expatriation  followed,  there  is  an  almost 
rollicking  satirical  tone: 

"Have  ye  heard  of  our  hunting,  o'er  mountain  and  glen, 
Through  cane-brake  and  forest, — the  hunting  of  men? 
The  lords  of  our  land  to  this  hunting  have  gone, 
As  the  fox-hunter  follows  the  sound  of  the  horn; 
Hark !  the  cheer  and  the  hallo !  the  crack  of  the  whip, 
And  the  yell  of  the  hound  as  he  fastens  his  grip ! 
All  blithe  are  our  hunters,  and  noble  their  match, 
Though  hundreds  are  caught,  there  are  millions  to  catch, 
So  speed  to  their  hunting,  o'er  mountain  and  glen, 
Through  cane-brake  and  forest, — the  hunting  of  men." 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      185 

No  aspects  of  the  struggle  which  was  waged  so 
long  before  redress  was  finally  reached,  caused  more 
bitterness  and  indignation  than  the  admission  of  fresh 
slave  territory  into  the  Union  and  the  treatment 
of  fugitive  slaves.  So  fierce  was  Whittier  in  his  poem 
written  at  the  earnest  entreaty  of  Lowell,  at  the  time 
of  the  annexation  of  Texas,  with,  it  was  boasted, 
enough  territory  for  six  new  slave  states,  that  later 
he  thought  it  well  to  tone  down  some  of  the  lines. 
Among  the  changes  may  be  noted  those  in  the  eight- 
eenth stanza: 

"And  when  vengeance  lights  your  skies, 
Hither  shall  ye  turn  your  eyes, 
As  the  damned  on  Paradise," 

in  which  "lights"  was  changed  to  "clouds,"  and 
"damned"  to  "lost."  Lowell  had  already  published 
anonymously  in  the  Boston  Courier,  March,  1844, 
a  poem  called  "Rallying  Cry  for  New  England 
Against  the  Annexation  of  Texas,"  which  began: 

"Rise  up,  New  England,  buckle  on  your  mail  of  proof  sub- 
lime, 

Your  stern  old  hate  of  tyranny,  your  deep  contempt  of 
crime ; 

A  plot  is  hatching  now,  more  full  of  woe  and  shame 

Than  ever  from  the  iron  heart  of  bloodiest  despot  came." 

Lowell's  poem  was  attributed  to  Whittier.  When, 
some  weeks  later,  Whittier's  appeared  in  the  Courier, 
Lowell  prefaced  it  with  an  explanatory  and  appreci- 
ative paragraph,  signed  "L,"  in  which  he  said: 

"A  few  weeks  since,  some  verses  appeared  in  the 


186      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Courier,  which  were  generally  ascribed  to  Whit- 
tier.  They  were  not  his,  however.  In  the  present 
crisis  of  the  fate  of  the  Republic,  New  England  listens 
for  a  trumpet-call  from  her  Tyrtseus.  Nor  will  she 
be  disappointed.  Whittier  has  always  been  found 
faithful  to  the  Muses'  holy  trust.  He  has  not  put 
his  talent  out  at  profitable  interest,  by  catering  to  the 
insolent  and  Pharisaical  self-esteem  of  the  times,  nor 
has  he  hidden  it  in  the  damask  napkin  of  historical 
commonplaces,  or  a  philanthropy  too  universal  to  con- 
cern itself  with  particular  wrongs,  the  practical  re- 
dressing of  which  is  all  that  renders  philanthropy  of 
value.  Most  poets  are  content  to  follow  the  spirit  of 
their  age,  as  pigeons  follow  a  leaky  grain  cart,  picking 
a  kernel  here  and  there,  out  of  the  dry  dust  of  the 
past.  Not  so  Whittier.  From  the  heart  of  the  onset 
upon  the  serried  mercenaries  of  every  tyranny,  the 
chords  of  his  iron-strung  lyre  clang  with  a  martial  and 
triumphant  cheer;  and  where  Freedom's  Spartan  few 
maintain  their  inviolate  mountain  pass  against  the 
assaults  of  slavery,  his  voice  may  be  heard,  clear  and 
fearless,  as  if  the  victory  were  already  won.  It  is 
with  the  highest  satisfaction  I  send  you  the  enclosed 
poem,  every  way  worthy  of  our  truly  New  England 
poet.  I  trust  that  when  this  meets  his  eye,  the  few 
words  which  I  could  not  refrain  from  adding  by  way 
of  preface  will  not  be  deemed  impertinent." 

We  are  told  that  the  indignation  with  which  both 
poems  was  ablaze  was  communicated  to  receptive 
minds  throughout  the  North,  and  although  the  hour 
was  not  yet  ripe  for  the  full  political  effect  desired, 
they  contributed  greatly  to  the  promotion  of  a  feel- 
ing antagonistic  to  the  spread  of  the  institution  of 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      187 

slavery  over  the  new  territory  then  soon  to  be  acquired 
by  an  unjust  war. 

Among  several  poems  expressing  sympathy  with 
fugitive  slaves,  none  possesses  a  deeper  or  more  con- 
trolled intensity  of  feeling  than  "Rendition,"  written 
at  the  time  of  the  arrest  of  Anthony  Burns,  a  fugitive 
slave  from  Virginia.  After  being  under  arrest  for  ten 
days  at  the  Boston  Court  House,  on  June  2d,  1854, 
he  was  remanded  to  slavery  under  the  Fugitive  Slave 
Act  and  taken  down  State  Street  to  a  steamer,  char- 
tered by  the  United  States  Government,  under  guard 
of  United  States  troops  and  artillery,  Massachusetts 
militia  and  Boston  police.  An  attempt  had  been  made 
to  rescue  Burns  while  he  was  under  arrest.  Public 
excitement  over  this  case  was  so  great  that  the  streets 
were  crowded  with  tens  of  thousands  of  people,  of 
whom  many  came  from  other  towns  and  cities  of  the 
State  to  witness  the  humiliating  spectacle. 

The  effect  of  this  episode  upon  Whittier  caused  him 
to  write: 

"I  felt  a  sense  of  bitter  loss, 

Shame,  tearless  grief,  and  stifling  wrath, 
And  loathing  fear,  as  if  my  path 
A  serpent  stretched  across. 

"All  love  of  home,  all  pride  of  place, 
All  generous  confidence  and  trust, 
Sank  smothering  in  that  deep  disgust 
And  anguish  of  disgrace. 

"Down  on  my  native  hills  of  June, 
And  home's  green  quiet,  hiding  all, 
Fell  sudden  darkness  like  the  fall 
Of  midnight  upon  noon ! 


188      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"And  Law,  an  unloosed  maniac  strong, 

Blood-drunken,  through  the  blackness  trod, 
Hoarse-shouting  in  the  ear  of  God 
The  blasphemy  of  wrong. 


"  'Mother  of  Freedom,  wise  and  brave, 
Rise  awful  in  thy  strength,'  I  said ; 
Ah  me!    I  spake  but  to  the  dead; 
I  stood  upon  her  grave." 

A  year  later  the  bill  against  the  Fugitive  Slave  Act 
had  passed,  and  he  was  able  to  write : 

"I  said  I  stood  upon  thy  grave, 

My  Mother  State,  when  last  the  moon 
Of  blossoms  clomb  the  skies  of  June. 

"And,  scattering  ashes  on  my  head, 
I  wore,  undreaming  of  relief, 
The  sackcloth  of  thy  shame  and  grief. 

"Again  the  moon  of  blossoms  shines 
On  leaf  and  flower  and  folded  wing, 
And  thou  hast  risen  with  the  spring!" 

The  supreme  test  of  Whittier's  Quakerism  came 
when  he  had  to  decide  between  war  and  the  secession 
of  the  Southern  States.  His  inherited  principles  con- 
quered, and  he  was  ready  to  say: 

"They  break  the  links  of  Union:  shall  we  light 
The  fires  of  hell  to  weld  anew  the  chain 
On  that  red  anvil  where  each  blow  is  pain? 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      189 

Draw  we  not  even  now  a  freer  breath, 
As  from  our  shoulders  falls  a  load  of  death 
Loathsome  as  that  the  Tuscan's  victim  bore 
When  keen  with  life  to  a  dead  horror  bound? 
Why  take  we  up  the  accursed  thing  again? 
Pity,  forgive,  but  urge  them  back  no  more 
Who,  drunk  with  passion,  flaunt  disunion's  rag 
With  its  vile  reptile-blazon.     Let  us  press 
The  golden  cluster  on  our  brave  old  flag 
In  closer  union,  and,  if  numbering  less, 
Brighter  shall  shine  the  stars  which  still  remain." 

His  position  is  stated  even  more  strongly  in  his  an- 
niversary poem,  read  at  the  Friends'  Yearly  Meeting 
School  in  Newport,  in  1863: 

"This  day  the  fearful  reckoning  comes 

To  each  and  all; 

We  hear  amidst  our  peaceful  homes 
The  summons  of  our  conscript  drums, 

The  bugle's  call. 

"Our  path  is  plain ;  the  war-net  draws 

Round  us  in  vain, 

While,  faithful  to  the  Higher  Cause, 
We  keep  our  fealty  to  the  laws 

Through  patient  pain. 

"The  levelled  gun,  the  battle-brand, 

We  may  not  take: 
But,  calmly  loyal,  we  can  stand 
And  suffer  with  our  suffering  land 
For  conscience'  sake." 

His  conscience  would  not  allow  him  to  sympathize 
with  war  or  to  take  any  active  part  in  it,  but  all 


190      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

through  the  war  his  voice  was  still  heard  singing  the 
songs  of  freedom,  and,  through  magazine  articles  and 
correspondence,  he  continued  to  urge  his  views  that 
slavery  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole  difficulty. 

The  whole  body  of  Friends  found  itself  in  a  dilem- 
ma when  the  cause  in  which  it  had  been  so  active  was 
finally  forced  into  the  arena  of  war.  The  younger 
members  of  the  society  were  many  of  them  conquered 
by  their  patriotic  impulses,  and  enlisted  in  the  war, 
feeling  that  though  as  a  society  they  must  bear  wit- 
ness against  war,  as  individuals  they  had  their  duty 
as  citizens  to  perform.  Whittier  took  the  view  that, 
while  they  should  remain  non-combatants,  they  had  a 
mission  to  perform.  This  was  to  mitigate  the  suf- 
ferings of  those  who  were  active  in  the  war  or  who 
were  left  destitute.  "Our  society  is  rich,"  he  wrote, 
"and  of  those  to  whom  much  is  given  much  will  be 
required  in  this  hour  of  proving  and  trial." 

One  more  quotation  will  show  that  only  by  trusting 
in  the  omniscient  guidance  of  the  Lord  could  he  at  all 
reconcile  himself  to  the  war: 

"We  hoped  for  peace ;  our  eyes  survey 
The  blood-red  dawn  of  Freedom's  day: 
We  prayed  for  love  to  loose  the  chain: 
'Tis  shorn  by  battle's  axe  in  twain ! 

"Nor  skill,  nor  strength,  nor  zeal  of  ours 
Has  mined  and  heaved  the  hostile  towers ; 
Not  by  our  hands  is  turned  the  key 
That  sets  the  sighing  captives  free. 

"A  redder  sea  than  Egypt's  wave 
Is  piled  and  parted  for  the  slave; 


LINCOLN 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      191 

A  darker  cloud  moves  on  in  light; 
A  fiercer  fire  is  guide  by  night! 

"The  praise,  O  Lord!  is  Thine  alone, 
In  Thy  own  way  Thy  work  is  done! 
Our  poor  gifts  at  Thy  feet  we  cast, 
To  whom  be  glory,  first  and  last !" 

Lowell  was  only  second,  if,  indeed,  he  was  not 
abreast  of  Whittier,  in  his  enthusiasm  for  the  anti- 
slavery  cause,  but  he  was  what  an  active  socialist  to- 
day would  call  an  "Academic."  His  pen  was  wielded 
for  the  cause,  both  in  prose  and  verse.  He  could 
strike  sledge-hammer  blows  at  the  evils  which  swarmed 
about  the  slavery  problem  like  birds  of  ill-omen,  if  he 
chose,  but  his  meditative  mind  was  prone  to  go  off  to 
one  side  and  dilate  upon  the  elemental  principles  un- 
derlying the  forces  at  work,  or  to  take  wide  sweeps 
over  generalities.  He  was  quite  aware  of  his  own 
limitations  as  the  promoter  of  a  cause,  and  was  evi- 
dently not  surprised  when  he  was  informed  that  his 
contributions  to  the  Standard,  for  which  he  had  been 
engaged  to  write  as  editorial  contributor,  were  not 
satisfactory  to  the  management  as  a  whole.  Mr.  Gay, 
the  editor-in-chief,  considered  his  contributions  to  the 
Standard  invaluable.  He  wrote  to  Lowell,  "Through 
you  it  has  a  reputation  which  in  all  its  previous  ex- 
istence it  had  failed  to  gain.  A  respect  and  regard  is 
accorded  to  it  because  of  your  efforts,  which  no  other 
person  ever  had,  and  no  other  person  probably  would 
ever  have  gained  for  it." 

"But,"  as  Horace  Scudder  writes,  in  his  Biography 
of  Lowell,  "the  Standard  was  not  Mr.  Gay's  paper  to 
do  with  as  he  would,  and  there  was  a  section  of  the 


192      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

committee  in  control  that  was  impatient  of  a  contribu- 
tor who  was  not,  as  they  were,  fighting  away  on  foot, 
with  stout  oak  staves  in  their  hands,  but  was  flying 
about  as  a  sort  of  light-horse  contingent,  and  some- 
times seemed  out  of  sight  and  yet  not  in  the  enemy's 
country." 

He  was  roused  to  strong  expression  in  regard  to 
the  resolutions  in  favor  of  the  annexation  of  Texas, 
when  he  wrote  for  the  Boston  Courier  the  verses  al- 
ready mentioned.  Again,  the  capture  of  some  fugi- 
tive slaves  near  Washington  awakened  in  him  such 
indignation  that  he  could  contemplate  the  possibility 
of  a  revolt  from  the  Constitution  and  Union,  if  it 
were  not  found  possible  to  abolish  slavery  in  New 
England  in  any  other  way: 

"Our  country  claims  our  fealty;  we  grant  it  so,  but  then 
Before  Man  made  us  citizens,  great  Nature  made  us  men. 
He's  true  to  God  who's  true  to  man;  wherever  wrong  is 

done, 
To  the  humblest  and  the  weakest,  'neath  the  all-beholding 

sun, 
That  wrong  is  also  done  to  us ;  and  they  are  slaves  most 

base, 
Whose  love  of  right  is  for  themselves,  and  not  for  all  their 

race." 

The  disgraceful  war  with  Mexico,  brought  on  by 
the  Texas  affair,  was  the  occasion  of  his  first  series 
of  Biglow  Papers,  the  popularity  of  which  was  so 
great  that  it  is  to  be  wondered  how  a  dozen  years  were 
allowed  to  slip  by  before  he  wrote  the  second  series. 
Pungent  satire,  frolicsome  humor  and  profound  wis- 
dom are  all  to  be  found  in  the  Biglow  Papers,  but  we 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      193 

cannot  to-day  attain  unto  a  complete  understanding 
of  them  without  making  ourselves  familiar  with  the 
political  issues  of  the  time.  We  must  realize  to  the 
full  why  Hosea  Biglow  was  justified  in  exclaiming: 

"Guess  you'll  toot  till  you  are  yeller 
'Fore  you  git  a-hold  o'  me." 

President  Polk  had  been  authorized  to  call  out  fifty 
thousand  volunteers,  if  necessary,  for  the  conduct  of 
the  Mexican  war.  He  immediately  did  so,  requesting 
Massachusetts  to  furnish  seven  hundred  and  seventy- 
seven  men.  Governor  Briggs  at  once  issued  a  procla- 
mation for  the  enrollment  of  the  regiment.  This  was 
regarded  by  many  as  a  sanction  for  the  extension  of 
slavery,  which  the  party  in  power  had  agreed  to  op- 
pose as  far  as  consistent  with  the  Constitution.  The 
Liberator  was  severe  in  its  censure  of  the  Government, 
and  Lowell  flung  his  darts  in  Hosea's  poem  at  war  in 
general,  and  this  war  in  particular.  The  penetrating 
Hosea  is  not  to  be  taken  in  by  military  glitter: 

"I  dunno  but  wut  it's  pooty 

Trainin'  round  in  bobtail  coats, — 
But  it's  curus  Christian  dooty 
This  'ere  cuttin'  f  olks's  throats." 

He  belongs  to  the  clear-seeing  idealists  who  feel 
deeply  how  Massachusetts  has  disgraced  herself  by 
thus  ranging  herself  on  the  side  of  slavery: 

"Massachusetts,  God  forgive  her, 
She's  a-kneelin'  with  the  rest. 


194      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"Ha'n't  they  sold  your  colored  seamen? 

Ha'n't  they  made  your  env'ys  w'it? 
Wut  '11  make  ye  act  like  freemen? 

Wut  '11  git  your  dander  riz  ? 
Come,  I'll  tell  ye  wut  I'm  thinkin' 

Is  our  dooty  in  this  fix, 
They'd  ha'  done  't  ez  quick  ez  winkin* 

In  the  days  o'  seventy-six. 

"Clang  the  bells  in  every  steeple, 

Call  all  true  men  to  disown 
The  tradoocers  of  our  people, 

The  enslavers  o'  their  own ; 
Let  our  dear  old  Bay  State  proudly 

Put  the  trumpet  to  her  mouth, 
Let  her  ring  this  messidge  loudly 

In  the  ears  of  all  the  South." 

Hosea  stands  for  the  good  sense  and  honor  of 
Massachusetts,  while  poor  Birdofreedum  Sawin,  who 
joins  the  regiment  and  goes  to  the  war,  is  made  the 
scapegoat  of  all  the  weakness  and  meanness  char- 
acteristic of  the  lowest,  self-seeking  politician,  as  well 
as  the  victim  of  the  war  policy.  He  is  so  wholly 
despicable  that  one  almost  feels  pity  for  him.  He 
falls  under  the  spell  of  the  recruiting  sergeant  be- 
cause he  is  made  to  believe  that  glory  and  plunder 
and  fun  will  be  his  reward.  As  for  glory,  he  found 
somehow,  that: 

"Wen  we'd  fit  an'  licked,  I  oilers  found  the  thanks 

Gut  kin'  o'  lodged  afore  they  come  ez  low  down  ez  the  ranks ; 

The  Gin'rals  gut  the  biggest  sheer,  the  Cunnles  next,  an' 

so  on, — 
We  never  gut  a  blasted  mite  o'  glory  ez  I  know  on." 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      195 

As  for  plunder,  he  thought,— 

"thet  gold-mines  could  be  gut  cheaper  than  Chiny  asters, 

An'  see  myself  a-comin'  back  like  sixty  Jacob  Astors ; 

But  sech  idees  soon  melted  down  an'  didn't  leave  a  grease- 
spot  ; 

I  vow  my  holl  sheer  o'  the  spiles  wouldn't  come  nigh  a  V- 
spot." 

He  fares  no  better  in  his  share  of  the  fun: 

"Wai,  arter  I  gin  glory  up,  thinks  I  at  least  there's  one 
Thing  in  the  bills  we  ain't  hed  yit,  an'  thet's  the  GLORIOUS 

FUN: 

Ef  once  we  git  to  Mexico,  we  fairly  may  presume  we 
All  day  an'  night  shall  revel  in  the  halls  o'  Montezumy. 
I'll  tell  ye  wut  my  revels  wuz,  an'  see  how  you  would  like  'em : 
We  never  gut  inside  the  hall:  the  nighest  ever  /  come 
Wuz  stan'in'  sentry  in  the  sun  (an'  fact,  it  seemed  a  cent'ry) 
A-ketchin'  smells  o'  biled  an'  roast  thet  come  out  thru  the 

entry, 

An'  hearin'  ez  I  sweltered  thru  my  passes  an'  repasses, 
A  rat-tat-too  o'  knives  an'  forks,  a  clinkty-clink  o'  glasses." 

The  only  thing  he  has  brought  from  the  war  out 
of  which  he  thinks  he  can  make  capital  are  his  wounds. 
He  has  lost  a  leg,  an  arm,  an  eye,  four  fingers  on  the 
hand  that  is  left,  and  six  ribs  have  been  broken,  but 
he  seems  to  take  it  all  rather  philosophically,  for  it 
will  bring  him  a  pension,  and,  he  hopes,  combined 
with  the  fact  that  he  "haint  gut  no  princerples,"  will 
make  him  eligible  for  some  office,  his  ambition  soaring 
even  to  the  Presidency. 

Lowell's  sarcasm  is  directed  especially  against  the 
sort  of  politician  who  trims  his  sails  to  suit  every  wind 


196      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

of  opinion,  and  who  plays  upon  the  sentiments  of  the 
people  in  bringing  forward  his  qualifications  for  of- 
fice. The  enthusiasm  of  the  American  people  at  large, 
at  that  time,  and  since,  could  usually  be  aroused  by 
the  contemplation  of  military  glory.  Generalship  has 
been  regarded  as  the  proper  preparation  for  states- 
manship. This  attitude  of  mind  is  reduced  to  absurd- 
ity by  Lowell  in  Birdofreedum's  advice  in  regard  to 
the  proper  manner  of  conducting  his  own  campaign : 

"Ef ,  wile  you're  'lectioneerin'  round,  some  curus  chaps  should 

beg 

To  know  my  views  o'  state  affairs,  jest  answer  WOODEN  LEG! 
Ef  they  aint  settisfied  with  that,  an'  kin  o'  pry  an'  doubt 
An'  ax  fer  sutthin  deffynit,  jest  say,  ONE  EYE  PUT  OUT  ! 
Thet  kin'  o'  talk  I  guess  you'll  find  '11  answer  to  a  charm, 
An'  wen  you're  druv  tu  nigh  the  wall,  hoi'  up  my  missin' 

arm; 
Ef  they  should  nose  round  fer  a  pledge,  put  on  a  vartoous 

look 
An'  tell  'em  thet's  percisely  wut  I  never  gin  nor — took ! 

"Then  you  can  call  me  'Timbertoes,' — thet's  wut  the  people 

likes ; 

Sutthin'  combinin'  morril  truth  with  phrases  sech  ez  strikes ; 
Some  say  the  people's  fond  o'  this,  or  thet,  or  wut  you 

please, — 

I  tell  ye  wut  the  people  want  is  jest  correct  idees; 
'Old  Timbertoes,'  you  see  's  a  creed  it's  safe  to  be  quite  bold 

on; 

There's  nothin'  in't  the  other  side  can  any  ways  git  hold  on ; 
It's  a  good  tangible  idee,  a  sutthin'  to  embody 
Thet  valooable  class  o'  men  who  look  thru  brandy-toddy ; 
It  gives  a  Party  Platform,  tu,  jest  level  with  the  mind 
Of  all  right-thinkin',  honest  folks  thet  mean  to  go  it  blind; 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      197 

Then  there  air  other  good  hooraws  to  dror  on  ez  you  need 

'em, 
Sech  ez  the  ONE-EYED  SLARTERER,  the  BLOODY  BIRDOFREE- 

DUM  : 
Them's  wut  takes  hold  o'  folks  thet  think,  ez  well  ez  o'  the 

masses, 
An'  makes  you  sartin  o'  the  aid  o'  good  men  of  all  classes." 

When  Birdofreedum  finds  that,  despite  all  his 
claims  upon  the  public  for  sympathy,  there  is  no 
chance  of  his  getting  the  nomination  for  president,  he 
naturally  throws  in  his  vote  for  Zachary  Taylor,  the 
colorless  candidate  of  the  Whigs  for  president  in  1848. 
This  gentleman  was  of  Birdof  reedum's  own  sort.  He 
had  not  any  "princerples,"  and  never  made  any 
pledges,  and  was  so  vague  generally  in  his  statements 
that  the  North  thought  he  meant  to  oppose  the  ex- 
tension of  slavery  and  the  South  was  reassured  be- 
cause he  was  himself  a  slaveholder.  Birdofreedum's 
arguments  in  favor  of  Taylor  reveal  the  true  inward- 
ness of  the  considerations  that  led  to  his  nomination: 

"Another  p'int  thet  influences  the  minds  o'  sober  j  edges 

Is   thet   the   Gin'ral   hez  n't   gut  tied   hand   an'   foot   with 

pledges ; 

He  hez  n't  told  ye  wut  he  is,  an'  so  there  ain't  no  knowin' 
But  wut  he  may  turn  out  to  be  the  best  there  is  agoin' ; 
This,  at  the  on'y  spot  thet  pinched,  the  shoe  directly  eases, 
Coz  every  one  is  free  to  'xpect  percisely  wut  he  pleases : 
I  want  free-trade;  you  don't;   the  Gin'ral  isn't  bound  to 

neither ; — 

I  vote  my  way ;  you,  yourn ;  an'  both  air  sooted  to  a  T  there. 
Ole  Rough  an'  Ready  tu's  a  Wig,  but  without  bein'  ultry ; 
He's  like  a  holsome  hayin'  day,  thet's  warm,  but  isn't  sultry ; 


198      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

He's  jest  wut  I  should  call  myself,  a  kin'  o'  scratch  ez  't  ware, 
Thet  ain't  exactly  all  a  wig  nor  wholly  your  own  hair ; 
I've  ben  a  Wig  three  weeks  myself,  jest  o'  this  mod'rate 

sort, 
An'    don't   find    them    an'    Demmercrats    so    defferent    ez    I 

thought." 

Birdofreedum's  lack  of  "princerple"  takes  him 
lower  and  lower.  He  thinks  it  would  add  to  his  im- 
portance in  the  eyes  of  the  Nation  if  he  could  buy  a 
nigger  baby  cheap.  He,  therefore,  goes  hunting  for 
fugitive  slaves,  expecting  to  receive  sufficient  reward 
to  enable  him  to  make  the  purchase.  Lowell  here 
points  a  moral,  showing  by  sharp  contrast  the  superi- 
ority of  the  self-respecting  negroes  to  such  good-for- 
nothing  white  trash  as  Birdofreedum,  who,  the  tables 
being  turned  upon  him,  is  kept  in  slavery  by  the  ne- 
groes he  would  have  caught,  finally  to  be  kicked  out 
with  the  opprobious  remarks: 

"Ef  you  know  wut's  best  fer  ye,  be  off,  now,  double-quick; 
The  winter-time's  a-comin'  on,  an'  though  I  gut  ye  cheap, 
You're  so  darned  lazy,   I   don't  think   you're  hardly   wuth 

your  keep ; 
Besides,   the   children's   growin'   up,   an'   you  ain't  jest   the 

model 
I'd  like  to  have  'em  immertate,  an'  so  you'd  better  toddle !" 

Lowell  did  not  hesitate  to  bring  under  his  lash  in- 
dividuals who  were  in  the  public  eye.  Hosea  writes 
his  infectious  rhymes  on  John  P.  Robinson,  who, 
having  been  a  zealous  Whig,  decided  to  vote  for  Gin- 
eral  C.  Gineral  C.  is  Caleb  Gushing,  the  colonel  of 
the  Massachusetts  regiment  of  volunteers,  and  an 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      199 

opposition   nominee   against    Briggs    for    governor, 
whom  Hosea  aptly  describes  as, 

"a  dreffle  smart  man: 

He's  ben  on  all  sides  thet  give  places  or  pelf; 
But  consistency  still  wuz  a  part  of  his  plan, — 
He's  ben  true  to  one  party, — an'  thet  is  himself: — 

So  John  P. 

Robinson  he 

Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C." 

Caleb  Gushing,  of  Newburyport,  was  the  man  in 
whom  Whittier  had  placed  much  trust  and  to  whom 
he  was  loyal  until  he  had  to  admit  that  he  was  not 
to  be  depended  upon.  Whittier's  early  political  am- 
bitions had  been  bound  up  in  a  way  with  Gushing' s. 
Gushing  had  been  a  candidate  for  a  seat  in  Congress 
in  his  district  and  had  seventeen  times  missed  being 
elected.  Whittier  was  proposed  in  his  place,  but  the 
plan  had  to  be  given  up  because  he  was  under  the 
required  age.  Finally  Gushing  succeeded  in  being 
elected  in  1834,  largely  through  Whittier's  help. 
Twice  subsequently  Whittier  was  instrumental  in 
electing  him.  At  first  Whittier  could  depend  upon 
Gushing  to  bring  anti-slavery  measures  before  Con- 
gress. But  Gushing  finally,  with  the  desire  to  receive 
an  office  when  the  Whigs  came  into  power  in  1841, 
repudiated  his  anti-slavery  record.  Whittier,  at 
last  thoroughly  disillusionized,  exerted  his  influence 
against  Gushing.  He  reprinted  the  letter  by  means 
of  which  he  had  carried  Cushing's  last  election  to  Con- 
gress, adding  a  preface  which  revealed  so  completely 
Cushing's  former  entente  with  the  anti-slavery  power 
that  he  was  defeated.  For  his  military  services  in 


200      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Mexico,  Gushing  was  raised  by  President  Polk  to  the 
rank  of  Brigadier-General.  But  neither  his  military 
glory,  nor  the  fact  that  John  P.  Robinson  said  he 
would  vote  for  Gineral  C.,  won  the  election  for  him, 
when  he  ran  for  governor  against  Governor  Briggs, 
in  1847. 

An  opposite  case  to  that  of  Robinson's  was  Pal- 
frey's, who  the  same  year  retarded  the  election  of 
R.  C.  Winthrop  to  the  speakership  of  the  House  by 
refusing  to  vote  for  him  upon  the  ground  that  he 
would  not  exert  his  influence  against  the  Mexican  war, 
and  against  the  extension  of  new  slave  territory. 
Great  was  the  indignation  of  the  supporters  of  the 
war  at  Mr.  Palfrey  for  taking  this  independent  stand. 
This  feeling  of  the  Cotton  Whigs,  as  they  were  called, 
is  sarcastically  portrayed  by  Lowell  in  the  "Remarks 
;of  Increase  D.  O 'phase,  Esquire."  The  gem  of  the 
respectable  Increase's  arguments  is  his  hit  at  the  anti- 
slavery  people: 

"Wut   right  had  Palfrey 
To  mix  himself  up  with  fanatical  small  fry? 
Warn't  we  gittin'  on  prime  with  our  hot  an'  cold  blowin', 
A-condemnin'  the  war  wilst  we  kep'  it  agoin'? 
We'd  assumed  with  gret  skill  a  commandin'  position, 
On  this  side  or  thet,  no  one  couldn't  tell  wich  one, 
So,  wutever  side  wipped,  we'd  a  chance  at  the  plunder 
An'  could  sue  fer  infringin'  our  paytented  thunder; 
We  were  ready  to  vote  fer  whoever  wuz  eligible, 
Ef  on  all  points  at  issoo  he'd  stay  unintelligible." 

From  what  has  been  said,  it  will  be  seen  that  Whit- 
tier  and  Lowell  were  entirely  at  one  in  their  attitude 
.toward  the  early  problems  of  the  anti-slavery  agita- 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      201 

tion.  Upon  the  question  of  the  extension  of  slave 
territory  and  the  iniquity  of  the  Mexican  war,  they 
both  felt  with  great  intensity.  Both  were  aroused  to 
indignation  at  the  self-interest  displayed  by  the  mon- 
eyed classes  and  the  politicians;  both  were  disgusted 
at  the  insincerity  of  the  churches,  and  the  hypocriti- 
calness  of  the  colonization  scheme.  War  was  as  ab- 
horrent to  Lowell  as  it  was  to  the  Quaker  Whittier. 
He  perhaps  saw  a  little  more  deeply  into  the  under- 
lying evils  of  war  than  Whittier.  He  saw  that  not 
merely  the  shooting  down  of  men  was  to  be  depre- 
cated, but  the  letting  loose  of  capitalistic  and  political 
self-seeking.  Not  only  was  it  the  crime  of  murder, 
but  it  was  murder  in  the  cause  of  the  individual  pocket 
and  individual  preeminence. 

Whittier  possessed  the  greater  emotional  fervor 
during  these  early  days;  hence  it  is  that  from  his  anti- 
slavery  poems  we  derive  more  completely  the  inten- 
sity of  feeling  rife  at  the  time,  while  he  shows  us 
the  actual  events  with  truly  dramatic  power.  Lowell, 
on  the  other  hand,  refers  to  events  in  an  allusional 
way,  and  in  presenting  such  imaginary  types  as 
Hosea  Biglow,  Birdofreedum  Sawin,  and  Increase  D. 
O'phase,  he  lays  before  us  the  opinion  rather  than  the 
feeling  of  the  time,  and  especially  the  unpleasant 
deviousness  of  the  political  sharpers  of  the  day. 

When  Lowell  printed  the  first  series  of  the  Biglow 
papers  in  book  form,  he  added  much  matter  from  the 
pen  of  the  Reverend  Homer  Wilbur:  an  Introduction 
and  Introductory  Notes,  and  so  on.  He  explains  in 
a  letter  in  regard  to  an  English  edition  of  the  Big- 
low  Papers,  published  ten  years  later,  "When  I  came 
to  collect  them  and  publish  them  in  a  volume,  I  con- 


202      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

ceived  my  parson-editor,  with  his  pedantry  and  ver- 
bosity, his  amiable  vanity,  and  superiority  to  the 
verses  he  was  editing,  as  a  fitting  artistic  background 
and  foil.  It  gave  me  the  chance,  too,  of  glancing 
obliquely  at  many  things  which  were  beyond  the  hor- 
izon of  my  other  characters.  I  was  told  afterwards 
that  my  parson  was  only  Jedediah  Cleishbotham  over 
again,  and  I  dare  say  it  may  be  so;  but  I  drew  him 
from  the  life  as  well  as  I  could  and  for  the  authentic 
reasons  I  have  mentioned." 

It  has  been  hinted  that  there  were  resemblances  be- 
tween the  parson  and  Lowell's  father;  the  resem- 
blances between  the  parson  and  Lowell  himself  are, 
however,  far  more  striking.  Every  now  and  then  the 
discursive  Wilbur,  with  his  tiresomely  learned  al- 
lusions and  his  roundabout  manner  of  making  his 
points,  disappears  in  a  forthright-speaking  Lowell. 
Partly  true  of  Mr.  Wilbur  in  the  first  series,  this  is 
even  more  marked  in  the  second  series.  Such  a  para- 
graph as  the  following  is  characteristic  of  the  parson : 

"I  know  nothing  in  our  modern  times  which  ap- 
proaches so  nearly  to  the  ancient  oracle  as  the  letter 
of  a  Presidential  candidate.  Now,  among  the  Greeks 
the  eating  of  beans  was  strictly  forbidden  to  all  such 
as  had  it  in  mind  to  consult  those  expert  amphibolo- 
gists,  and  this  same  prohibition  on  the  part  of  Py- 
thagoras to  his  disciples  is  understood  to  imply  an 
abstinence  from  politics,  beans  having  been  used  as 
ballots.  That  other  explication,  quod  videlicet  sensus 
eo  cibo  obtundi  existimaret,  though  supported  pugnis 
et  calcibus  by  many  of  the  learned,  and  not  wanting 
the  countenance  of  Cicero,  is  confuted  by  the  larger 
experience  of  New  England.  On  the  whole,  I  think 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      203 

it  safer  to  apply  here  the  rule  of  interpretation  which 
now  generally  obtains  in  regard  to  antique  cosmog- 
onies, myths,  fables,  proverbial  expressions,  and 
knotty  points  generally,  which  is,  to  find  a  common- 
sense  meaning,  and  then  select  whatever  can  be  im- 
agined the  most  opposite  thereto.  In  this  way  we 
arrive  at  the  conclusion,  that  the  Greeks  objected  to 
the  questioning  of  candidates.  And  very  properly, 
if,  as  I  conceive,  the  chief  point  be  not  to  discover 
what  a  person  in  that  position  is,  or  what  he  will  do, 
but  whether  he  can  be  elected.  Vos  eccemplaria  Grceca 
nocturna  versate  manu,  versate  diurna" 

This  elaborate  fun,  thrusting  like  a  double-edged 
sword  at  the  pedant's  methods  of  argument  and  the 
sort  of  conclusions  at  which  politicians  arrive,  is,  when 
one  has  unravelled  its  indirections,  fine  sarcasm,  but 
how  much  more  convincing  such  an  eloquent  outburst 
as  this  other,  full  of  wisdom,  applicable  to  all  time! 
In  it  the  voice  of  the  serious  Lowell  is  speaking.  Wil- 
bur is  forgotten,  and  feeling  has,  for  the  time,  burst 
the  bounds  of  the  dramatic  masque: 

"I  made  one  of  the  crowd  at  the  last  Mechanics' 
Fair,  and,  with  the  rest,  stood  gazing  in  wonder  at 
a  perfect  machine,  with  its  soul  of  fire,  its  boiler-heart, 
that  sent  the  hot  blood  pulsing  along  the  iron  arteries, 
and  its  thews  of  steel.  And,  while  I  was  admiring 
the  adaptation  of  means  to  end,  the  harmonious  in- 
volutions of  contrivance,  and  the  never-bewildered 
complexity,  I  saw  a  grimed  and  greasy  fellow,  the 
imperious  engine's  lackey  and  drudge,  whose  sole  of- 
fice was  to  let  fall,  at  intervals,  a  drop  or  two  of  oil 
upon  a  certain  point.  Then  my  soul  said  within  me, 
See  there  a  piece  of  mechanism  to  which  the  other  you 


204      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

marvel  at  is  but  as  the  first  rude  effort  of  a  child, — a 
force  which  not  merely  suffices  to  set  a  few  wheels  in 
motion,  but  which  can  send  an  impulse  all  through 
the  infinite  future, — a  contrivance,  not  for  turning  out 
pins,  or  stitching  buttonholes,  but  for  making  Ham- 
lets and  Lears.  And  yet  this  thing  of  iron  shall  be 
housed,  waited  on,  guarded  from  rust  and  dust,  and 
it  shall  be  a  crime  but  so  much  as  to  scratch  it  with  a 
pin;  while  the  other,  with  its  fire  of  God  in  it,  shall 
be  buffeted  hither  and  thither,  and  finally  sent  care- 
fully a  thousand  miles  to  be  the  target  for  a  Mexican 
cannon-ball.  Unthrifty  Mother  State!  My  heart 
burned  within  me  for  pity  and  indignation." 

One  of  the  whimsical  features  of  the  collected  edi- 
tion of  the  Biglow  Papers  was  the  imaginary  notices 
of  the  press,  which  were  prefixed.  They  are  bur- 
lesques of  the  various  types  of  unappreciative  praise 
and  vituperative  dispraise  which  is  pretty  sure  to  be 
the  portion  of  any  strong  book.  The  surprising  thing 
about  them  is  that  they  are  so  much  like  the  press 
notices  of  to-day.  One  or  two  of  these  notices  have 
the  air  of  the  serious,  carefully  weighed  criticism  of 
the  more  ponderous  weekly,  like  this  from  the  "Bung- 
town  Copper  and  Comprehensive  Toscin"  (a  tri- 
weekly family  journal) : 

"Altogether  an  admirable  work  ...  Full  of 
humor,  boisterous  but  delicate, — of  wit  withering  and 
scorching,  yet  combined  with  a  pathos  cool  as  morn- 
ing dew, — of  satire  ponderous  as  the  mace  of  Richard, 
yet  keen  as  the  scymitar  of  Saladin  ...  A  work 
full  of  'Mountain-mirth,'  mischievous  as  Puck,  and 
lightsome  as  Ariel  .  .  .  We  know  not  whether 
to  admire  most  the  genial,  fresh,  and  discursive  con- 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      205 

cinnity  of  the  author,  or  his  playful  fancy,  weird  im- 
agination, and  compass  of  style  at  once  both  objective 
and  subjective." 

The  gem  of  the  collection,  however,  is  the  parody 
of  Carlyle,  quite  as  laughter-provoking  as  any  of 
Hosea's  shafts  or  Birdofreedum's  self-revelations, 
from  which  a  paragraph  will  give  a  sample  of  the 
whole.  There  is  little  to  be  said  of  Wilbur  after  this 
imaginary  Carlyle  has  dissected  him: 

"O  purblind,  well-meaning,  altogether  Melesigenes 
Wilbur,  there  are  things  in  him  incommunicable  by 
stroke  of  birch !  Did  it  ever  enter  that  old,  bewildered 
head  of  thine  that  there  was  the  Possibility  of  the 
Infinite  in  him?  To  thee,  quite  wingless  (and  even 
featherless)  biped,  has  not  so  much  as  a  dream  of 
wings  ever  come?  Talented  young  parishioner? 
Among  the  arts  whereof  thou  art  Magister>  does  that 
of  seeing  happen  to  be  one  ?  Unhappy  Artium  Magis- 
ter!  Somehow  a  Nemean  lion,  fulvous,  torrid-eyed, 
dry-nursed  in  a  broad-howling  sand-wilderness  of  a 
sufficiently  rare  spirit — Libya  (it  may  be  supposed) 
has  got  whelped  among  the  sheep." 

In  work  of  the  nature  of  these  papers  Lowell  shows 
an  intellectual  tendency  to  let  his  sense  of  humor  run 
away  with  him,  just  as  we  have  previously  seen  his 
intellectual  meditations  at  times  overtop  his  emotions. 
This  tendency  was  somewhat  curbed  in  the  second 
series,  written  during  a  time  which  tried  men's  souls 
to  the  uttermost,  and  was  for  him  mingled  with  deep 
personal  grief. 

Birdofreedum  continues  in  his  downward  path.  He 
marries,  according  to  his  own  account,  an  F.  F.  V., 
regardless  of  the  fact  that  he  has  a  wife  in  the  North, 


206      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

and  excuses  himself  upon  the  ground  that  having 
seceded  he  is  no  longer  under  the  laws  of  the  North. 
Lowell's  scorn  of  the  aristocratic  pretensions  of  the 
South  finds  full  vent  in  the  merciless  revelations  Bird- 
ofreedum  gives  of  his  own  utterly  despicable  char- 
acter, as  well  as  in  the  remarks  of  Mr.  Wilbur.  The 
Invocation  to  Virginia,  already  quoted,  was  a  grace- 
ful means  of  burying  the  hatchet  many  years  later, 
when  the  enmity  begotten  of  the  war  had  given  place 
to  calmer  judgment.  Not  the  South  alone  comes 
under  Lowell's  lash.  He  never  spares  his  criticisms 
upon  the  shortcomings  of  Northern  politicians.  Al- 
most in  the  same  breath  he  flings  his  shafts  at  Jeff 
Davis  and  the  Southern  Confederacy  as  he  makes 
Birdofreedum  tell  of  his  allegiance  to  the  secession 
cause;  and  at  the  flaws  in  Northern  politics  through 
that  same  gentleman's  exquisite  reasons  why  he  won't 
"up  stakes"  at  present: 

"Long  'z  A'll  turn  tu  an'  grin'  B's  exe,  ef  B'll  help  him  grin' 
hisn, 

"Long  'z  ye  give  out  commissions  to  a  lot  o'  peddlin'  drones 
Thet  trade  in  whisky  with  their  men  an'  skin  'em  to  their 

bones, — 
Long  'z  ye  sift  out  'safe'   canderdates  thet  no   one  ain't 

afeard  on 
Coz  they're  so  thund'rin'   eminent  for  bein'  never  heard  on," 

these  are  a  few  of  the  reasons. 

Hosea  is  more  poetic  in  the  second  series  than  in 
the  first.  Some  of  Lowell's  most  charming  descrip- 
tions of  nature  are  here  put  into  Hosea's  month.  For 
some  mysterious  reason,  the  Yankee  dialect  seems  an 


BUNKER  HII/L  MONUMENT 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      207 

especially  happy  medium  for  the  describing  of  spring 
flowers : 

"Half-vent'rin'  liverworts  in  furry  coats, 
Bloodroots,  whose  rolled-up  leaves  ef  you  oncurl, 
Each  on  'em  's  cradle  to  a  baby-pearl," 

or,  such  a  perfect  bit  as  this: 

"'Fore  long  the  trees  begin  to  show  belief, — 
The  maple  crimsons  to  a  coral-reef, 
Then  saffern  swarms  swing  off  from  all  the  willers, 
So  plump  they  look  like  yaller  caterpillars, 
Then  gray  hossches'nuts  leetle  hands  unfold, 
Softer'n  a  baby's  be  at  three  days  old." 

One  of  the  most  interesting  of  this  series  is  the 
conversation  between  the  Concord  Bridge  and  Bunker 
Hill  Monument,  overheard  by  Hosea  in  an  evening 
walk,  relating  to  the  Mason  and  Slidell  difficulty. 
The  intensity  of  feeling  at  the  time  is  strongly  re- 
flected in  this  poem,  and  is  pleasanter  to  contemplate 
in  the  form  of  a  dialogue  between  the  bridge  and  the 
monument,  which  might  be  expected  to  have  con- 
centrated within  their  ancient  wooden  and  stony  con- 
sciousnesses a  belligerent  feeling  against  the  mother 
country,  than  to  read  about  as  a  bitter  episode  of  the 
war,  thoroughly  in  keeping  with  the  stand  which  Eng- 
land took  in  according  belligerent  rights  to  the  Con- 
federacy. We  do  not  like  to  think  of  the  England 
of  that  day  expressing  such  deliberate  unfriendliness 
to  the  United  States,  nor  to  think  that  she  could  thus 
throw  in  her  sympathies  on  the  side  of  dissolution, 
and  the  establishment  of  a  slave  nation.  In  speaking 


208      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

of  this  incident,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Wilbur's  identity 
is  lost  in  that  of  the  indignant  Lowell,  who  exclaims, 
"Was  there  nothing  in  the  indecent  haste  with  which 
belligerent  rights  were  conceded  to  the  Rebels,  noth- 
ing in  the  abrupt  tone  assumed  in  the  Trent  case, 
nothing  in  the  fitting  out  of  Confederate  privateers, 
that  might  stir  the  blood  of  a  people  already  over- 
charged with  doubt,  suspicion,  and  terrible  responsi- 
bility?" 

There  is  a  hint,  too,  in  this  poem  of  Lowell's  final 
stand.  Slavery  became  with  him  a  secondary  issue, 
while  the  preservation  of  the  Union  grew  to  be  of  the 
first  importance.  When  this  issue  arose  he  believed 
that  war,  since  it  had  come,  must  be  entered  into  in 
dead  earnest: 

"We've  turned  our  cuffs  up,  but,  to  put  her  thru, 
We  must  git  mad  an'  off  with  jackets,  tu ; 
'T  wun't  du  to  think  that  killin'  ain't  perlite, — 
You've  gut  to  be  in  airnest,  ef  you  fight ; 
You  wun't  do  much  ontil  you  think  it's  God, 
An'  not  constitoounts,  thet  holds  the  rod." 

In  a  paper  written  for  the  Atlantic  at  the  same 
period,  we  find  an  exact  statement  of  his  attitude  in 
regard  to  the  war.  The  whole  situation  is  summed 
up  once  for  all  in  a  strong  paragraph,  which  shows 
that  the  events  of  a  dozen  years,  in  conjunction  with 
his  own  intellectual  growth,  had  carried  Lowell  far 
from  the  earlier  feeling  which  occasionally  swept  over 
him,  that  the  secession  of  the  slave  states  would  be 
better  than  to  allow  for  a  moment  the  continuance  of 
slavery  within  the  Nation's  borders. 

"To  our  minds,  though  it  may  be  obscure  to  Eng- 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      209 

lishmen,  who  look  on  Lancashire  as  the  centre  of 
the  universe,  no  army  was  ever  enlisted  for  a  nobler 
service  than  ours.  Not  only  is  it  national  life,  and  a 
foremost  place  among  nations  that  is  at  stake,  but  the 
vital  principle  of  Law  itself,  the  august  foundation 
on  which  the  very  possibility  of  government,  above 
all  of  self-government,  rests  in  the  hollow  of  God's 
own  hand.  If  democracy  shall  prove  itself  capable 
of  having  raised  twenty  millions  of  people  to  a  level 
of  thought  where  they  can  appreciate  this  cardinal 
truth,  and  can  believe  no  sacrifice  too  great  for  its 
defense  and  establishment,  then  democracy  will  have 
vindicated  itself  beyond  all  chance  of  future  cavil. 
Here,  we  think,  is  a  Cause,  the  experience  of  whose 
vicissitudes  and  the  grandeur  of  whose  triumph  will 
be  able  to  give  us  heroes  and  statesmen.  The  Slave- 
Power  must  be  humbled,  must  be  punished, — so  hum- 
bled and  so  punished  as  to  be  a  warning  forever;  but 
slavery  is  an  evil  transient  in  its  cause  and  its  con- 
sequence, compared  with  those  which  would  result 
from  unsettling  the  faith  of  a  nation  in  its  own  man- 
hood, and  setting  a  whole  generation  of  men  hope- 
lessly adrift  in  the  formless  void  of  anarchy." 

It  is  notorious  that  Lowell  was  at  first  not  much 
prepossessed  with  the  policy  of  Lincoln.  He  felt  that 
his  movements  were  too  slow  and  cautious.  This 
feeling  comes  out  in  "The  Latest  Views  of  Hosea 
Biglow,"  at  the  same  time  that  his  growing  respect 
for  Lincoln,  which  finally  ended  in  boundless  admir- 
ation for  his  statesmanship,  is  also  shown.  Hosea's 
complaints  of  the  lack  of  proper  leadership  culminate 
in  an  expression  of  faith  in  the  wisdom  of  the  eman- 
cipation proclamation: 


210      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"An'  come  wut  will,  I  think  it's  grand 

Abe's  gut  his  will  et  last  bloom-furnaced 
In  trial-flames  till  it'll  stand 

The  strain  o'  bein'  in  deadly  earnest. 
Thet's  wut  we  want, — we  want  to  know 

The  folks  on  our  side  hez  the  bravery 
To  b'lieve  ez  hard,  come  weal,  come  woe, 

In  Freedom  ez  Jeff  doos  in  Slavery." 

There  is  a  deep  pathos  in  Mr.  Hosea  Biglow's  next 
utterance,  a  letter  to  the  editor  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly ',  in  which  he  declares  he  cannot  respond  to 
the  request  to  be  funny.  Everything  has  lost  its 
power  of  inspiration  for  him.  He  can  think  only  of 
the  "Rat-tat-tat-tattle  thru  the  street, 

I  hear  the  drummers  makin'  riot, 
An'  I  set  thinkin'  o'  the  feet 

Thet  followed  once  an'  now  are  quiet, — 
White  feet  ez  snowdrops  innercent, 

Thet  never  knowed  the  paths  o'  Satan, 
Whose  comin'  step  ther'  's  ears  thet  won't, 

No,  not  lifelong,  leave  off  awaitin'. 

"Why,  hain't  I  held  'em  on  my  knee? 

Didn't  I  love  to  see  'em  growin', 
Three  likely  lads  ez  wal  could  be, 

Hahnsome  an'  brave  an'  not  tu  knowin'? 
I  set  an'  look  into  the  blaze 

Whose  natur',  jes'  like  theirn,  keeps  climbin', 
Ez  long  'z  it  lives,  in  shinin'  ways, 

An'  half  despise  myself  for  rhymin'. 

"Wut's  words  to  them  whose  faith  an'  truth 
On  war's  red  techstone  rang  true  metal, 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      211 

Who  ventured  life  an'  love  an'  youth 

For  the  great  prize  o'  death  in  battle?" 

These  are,  of  course,  personal  references  to  his 
nephews,  Charles  Russell  Lowell  and  his  brother, 
James  Jackson  Lowell,  and  William  Lowell  Putnam, 
their  cousin,  who  were  all  killed  in  the  war.  Some- 
how, Whittier's  peace  principles  seem  almost  puerile 
in  the  face  of  such  sacrifice  of  beautiful  young  lives 
for  the  great  Cause.  One  has  only  to  look  at  the  por- 
traits of  these  young  men  to  realize  of  what  fine  and 
noble  fibre  they  were.  Lowell,  writing  of  the  death 
of  William  Putnam,  says:  "He  came  home  yesterday 
afternoon,  his  face  little  changed,  they  tell  me,  and 
with  a  smile  on  it.  He  got  his  wound  as  we  could 
wish.  The  adjutant  of  the  regiment  was  hit,  Willie 
sprang  forward  to  help  him,  and  was  shot  instantly. 
Jamie  sprang  to  help  him,  and  was  hit,  but  will  be 
about  again  in  ten  days  or  so." 

Edward  Everett  Hale  says,  writing  of  Putnam, 
that  he  was  drilling  for  the  war  at  the  same  time,  and 
was  so  much  attracted  by  Putnam's  noble,  cheerful 
face  that  he  presented  arms  in  parade  not  so  much  to 
the  commanding  officer  as  to  this  beautiful  boy,  who, 
at  the  distance  of  thirty  or  forty  yards,  presented  arms 
to  him.  Upon  his  recovery,  James  Jackson  Lowell  re- 
joined his  regiment  and  in  less  than  a  year  after  his 
cousin's  death  received  his  mortal  wound.  General 
Charles  Russell  Lowell  was  ordered  in  November, 
1862,  to  report  to  Governor  Andrew  for  the  purpose 
of  organizing  the  Second  Massachusetts  Cavalry,  of 
which  he  was  appointed  colonel.  For  many  months 
he  was  occupied  in  resisting  the  incursions  of  Mosby, 


212      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

and  was  finally  mortally  wounded  at  Cedar  Creek 
while  leading  his  command.  Even  his  enemy,  Colonel 
Mosby,  bore  witness  to  the  fine  qualities  of  this  young 
commander,  of  whom  he  wrote  that,  of  all  the  Federal 
commanders  opposed  to  him,  he  had  the  highest  re- 
spect for  Colonel  Lowell,  both  as  an  officer  and  a 
gentleman. 

This  poem  of  Hosea's  was  not  written  until  the 
close  of  the  war,  but  out  of  deep  personal  feeling 
Lowell  had  already  written  a  remarkable  poem,  "The 
Washers  of  the  Shroud."  It  has  the  effect  of  a  sym- 
bolic vision  born  of  great  anguish  of  spirit.  Fear  for 
the  country  which  he  loves  with  passionate  intensity  is 
mingled  with  hope  that  the  bravery  of  the  country's 
defenders  shall  save  it,  and  anxiety  lest  those  whom 
he  loves  may  be  sacrificed.  Through  all  the  agony  is 
felt  a  great  longing  for  peace.  The  vision  is  of  three 
fair  Fates,  Time  was,  Time  is,  and  Time  shall  be. 
They  are  washing  a  shroud  for  Hesper,  typical  of 
the  West,  who  has  "gathered  States  like  children 
round  his  knees.'*  The  poet  cries  out,  "But  not  for 
him"— "not  yet  for  him"— "Not  yet  his  thews  shall 
fail,  his  eye  grow  dim."  Then  he  thinks  of  what  sac- 
rifices it  may  mean  that  the  Nation  may  be  rescued 
from  the  fateful  shroud,  and  the  poem  ends  with  a 
cry  of  pain: 

"Tears  may  be  ours,  but  proud,  for  those  who  win 
Death's  royal  purple  in  the  foeman's  lines; 


"God,  give  us  peace !    Not  such  as  lulls  to  sleep, 
But  sword  on  thigh,  and  brow  with  purpose  knit ! 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      213 

And  let  our  Ship  of  State  to  harbor  sweep, 

Her  ports  all  up,  her  battle-lanterns  lit, 

And  her  leashed  thunders  gathering  for  their  leap ! 

"So  cried  I  with  clenched  hands  and  passionate  pain, 
Thinking  of  dear  ones  by  Potomac's  side ; 
Again  the  loon  laughed  mocking,  and  again 
The  echoes  bayed  far  down  the  night  and  died, 
While  waking  I  recalled  my  wandering  brain." 

Upon  the  day  when  this  poem  was  published  the 
writing  of  which  had  left  the  poet  in  a  state  of  utter 
exhaustion,  he  received  the  news  of  his  nephew's  death. 

Four  other  poems,  inspired  in  war  times,  were  writ- 
ten before  we  hear  the  last  of  Hosea  Biglow,  who 
for  more  than  two  years  kept  silence.  The  first  of 
these  is  "Two  Scenes  from  the  Life  of  Blondel,"  a 
parable,  of  which  Lincoln  is  the  hero  of  the  first  part. 
The  second  part  is  somewhat  obscure,  and  not,  to  my 
mind,  so  much  an  improvement  to  the  whole  as 
Lowell  himself  seemed  to  think  it.  It  reflects  a  gen- 
eral feeling  of  disillusionment  in  regard  to  his  "King" 
and  himself,  a  reaction  against  a  moment  of  enthusi- 
asm, which  may  be  "clever,"  as  the  poet  thought,  but 
is  not  inspiring.  If  this  is  the  gist  of  it,  amends,  as 
far  as  Lincoln  is  concerned,  are  made  in  "The  Com- 
memoration Ode,"  in  which  he  has  thrown  aside  what- 
ever doubts  he  had  of  Lincoln's  qualities  as  a  leader 
in  the  Nation's  crisis,  and  has  characterized  the  great 
statesman  in  a  way  which  has  given  to  him  the  dis- 
tinction of  being,  as  a  recent  writer  has  said,  "the 
first  of  the  leading  American  writers  to  see  clearly 
and  fully,  and  clearly  and  fully  and  enthusiastically 
proclaim  the  greatness  of  Abraham  Lincoln." 


216      THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

laureate — he  was  the  Seer  of  the  War  for  the  Union. 
Whittier's  peace  principles  took  him  out  of  the  tur- 
moil and  away  to  a  mountain-top  to  watch  and  pray 
and  have  faith  that  the  Lord  must  know  what  He 
was  about,  though  His  ways  were  beyond  compre- 
hension to  a  believer  in  peaceful  means  of  attaining 
justice.  As  Whittier  retired,  Lowell  became  mili- 
tant. His  love  of  peace,  just  as  inbred  as  that  of 
Whittier,  gave  way  before  his  stronger  love  of  coun- 
try, and  to  save  that,  war  became  a  righteous  and 
solemn  duty.  His  beautiful  words  to  Mr.  Charles 
Norton,  at  the  close  of  the  war,  reveal  what  depth  of 
feeling  Lowell  had  for  the  ideal  of  country:  "The 
news  is  from  Heaven.  I  felt  a  strange  and  tender 
exaltation.  I  wanted  to  laugh  and  I  wanted  to  cry, 
and  ended  by  holding  my  peace  and  feeling  devoutly 
thankful.  There  is  something  magnificent  in  having 
a  country  to  love.  It  is  almost  like  what  one  feels 
for  a  woman,  not  so  tender  perhaps,  but  to  the  full 
as  self-forgetful." 

Neither  Bryant  nor  Emerson  contributed  much  to 
the  poetry  of  anti-slavery  and  the  war.  A  handful 
of  short  poems  between  them,  for  the  most  part  not 
inspired  by  any  definite  historical  incidents,  but  by 
the  burning  ideals  of  the  period.  Bryant's  chief  war 
poems  are  "Our  Country's  Call"  and  "The  Death  of 
Slavery." 

The  first  shows  Bryant  a  believer  in  war  when  the 
dire  necessity  arises,  although  he  had  held  a  middle 
ground  during  the  many  years  of  agitation  preceding 
that  necessity.  For  fifty  years  he,  as  the  editor  of 
the  New  York  Evening  Post,  had  insisted  upon  the 
right  of  absolutely  free  discussion  in  the  matter,  and 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      217 

while  he  did  not  take  the  ultra-radical  views  of  the 
Garrisonites,  he  set  his  face  against  any  extension 
of  slavery.  His  temperate  attitude  was  not  the  re- 
sult of  any  leaning  toward  the  institution,  but  grew 
out  of  his  faith  that  the  moral  development  of  the 
Nation  would  lead  naturally  to  its  peaceful  extinction. 
The  final  stanza  of  the  poem  shows  what  his  feelings 
became,  when  he  finally  realized  that  the  change  could 
not  be  brought  about  by  peaceful  methods. 

The  second  of  these  poems  is  a  somewhat  conven- 
tional piece  of  work,  but  if  not  inspired  in  utterance, 
its  sentiment  rings  true  and  shows  how  thoroughly  in 
sympathy  Bryant  was  with  the  final  accomplishment 
of  the  purpose  of  the  anti-slavery  movement. 

What  Emerson  has  done  in  poetry,  for  the  time, 
is  marked  by  his  usual  qualities  of  exaltation  and 
philosophical  perception.  In  his  "Voluntaries"  he 
shows  the  same  eagerness  expressed  by  Lowell,  that 
the  Nation  may  have  heroes  willing  to  sacrifice  them- 
selves in  war.  His  emphasis  is,  however,  more  upon 
the  ideal  of  Freedom  than  upon  that  of  Country.  In 
the  third  of  these,  he  exclaims : 

"In  an  age  of  fops  and  toys, 
Wanting  wisdom,  void  of  right, 
Who  shall  nerve  heroic  boys 
To  hazard  all  in  Freedom's  fight?" 

to  which  he  answers: 

"So  nigh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust, 
So  near  is  God  to  man, 
When  Duty  whispers  low,  Thou  must, 
The  youth  replies,  I  can." 


218      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

In  the  fifth  voluntary,  his  thought  soars  entirely 
away  from  the  actual  of  relative  right  and  wrong  to 
the  Eternal  Rights: 

"Blooms  the  laurel  which  belongs 
To  the  valiant  chief  who  fights; 
I  see  the  wreath,  I  hear  the  songs 
Lauding  the  Eternal  Rights. 
Victors  over  daily  wrongs: 
Awful  victors,  they  misguide 
Whom  they  will  destroy, 
And  their  coming  triumph  hide 
In  our  downfall,  or  our  j  oy : 
They  reach  no  term,  they  never  sleep, 
In  equal  strength  through  space  abide ; 
Though,  feigning  dwarfs,  they  crouch  and  creep, 
The  strong  they  slay,  the  swift  outride: 
Fate's  grass  grows  rank  in  valley  clods, 
And  rankly  on  the  castled  steep, — 
Speak  it  firmly,  these  are  gods, 
All  are  ghosts  beside." 

With  Emerson,  feeling  vanishes  in  light.  Poetry 
of  this  calibre  might  grow  out  of  one  fight  for  free- 
dom as  well  as  another,  but  that  of  Whittier  and 
Lowell  could  have  arisen  out  of  nothing  but  the  spe- 
cial events  of  our  own  struggle,  and  the  especial  ex- 
periences and  enthusiasm  of  these  two  men,  and  on 
this  account  their  poems  will  to  the  end  of  time  fire 
the  patriotism  and  loyalty  of  those  who  believe  pro- 
foundly in  the  "Amerikin  idee,"  as  Hosea  calls  it. 

Though  so  little  of  their  patriotism  came  out  in 
their  verse,  these  two  poets  did  splendid  work  in  other 
directions.  Bryant,  as  the  editor  of  the  New  York 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      219 

Evening  Post,  made  a  deep  impression  at  the  time. 
As  George  William  Curtis  has  written,  "He  acknowl- 
edged every  lawful  defense,  every  plea  of  expedi- 
ency, every  appeal  of  possible  calamity.  He  had 
deprecated  agitation  which  seemed  to  him  only  to 
exasperate  feeling  and  rivet  bonds  more  closely.  But 
now  he  saw — not  as  a  Democrat,  not  as  a  New 
Yorker,  not  as  a  Northerner — he  saw  as  a  man,  that 
humanity  was  in  danger,  where  he  could  help ;  he  saw 
as  an  American,  that  America  was  imperilled;  he 
saw  as  a  lifelong  lover  of  liberty,  that  liberty  was 
vitally  assailed;  and  as  a  man,  as  an  American,  as  a 
lover  of  liberty,  he  declared,  in  the  spring  of  1856, 
against  the  extension  of  slavery,  and  five  years  later 
his  whole  political  faith  burst  forth  in  one  indignant 
peal  of  patriotism." 

Emerson's  temperament  was  not  that  of  one  who 
rushes  into  practical  methods  of  reform,  yet  he  used 
his  influence  to  good  purpose  by  speaking  upon  many 
occasions  in  sympathy  with  anti-slavery  ideals.  He 
believed  that  the  most  righteous  way  of  solving  the 
problem  would  be  for  the  Nation  to  buy  the  freedom 
of  the  slaves.  In  an  address  before  the  anti-slavery 
society  in  New  York,  he  drew  a  glowing  picture  of 
the  manner  in  which  slavery  was  to  be  abolished.  He 
said  in  part:  "Every  man  will  bear  his  part.  We 
will  have  a  chimney  tax.  We  will  give  up  our  coaches 
and  wine  and  watches.  The  church  will  melt  her  plate. 
The  Father  of  His  Country  shall  wait,  well  pleased,  a 
little  longer  for  his  monument.  Franklin  will  wait 
for  his,  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  for  theirs ;  and  the  patient 
Columbus,  who  waited  all  his  mortality  for  justice, 
shall  wait  a  part  of  immortality  also.  .  .  .  The 


220      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

rich  shall  give  of  their  riches,  the  merchants  of  their 
commerce;  the  mechanics  of  their  strength;  the  needle- 
women will  give,  and  children  can  have  a  Cent  So- 
ciety. .  .  .  Every  man  in  this  land  would  give  a 
week's  work  to  dig  away  this  accursed  mountain  of 
slavery,  and  force  it  forever  out  of  the  world." 

Like  Bryant,  when  he  found  that  no  such  ideal 
method  as  his  was  going  to  be  possible,  he  was  ready 
to  meet  the  occasion.  He  felt  that  the  struggle  for 
freedom  was  developing  a  heroism  and  moral  gran- 
deur noble  to  see.  It  is  pleasant  to  think  of  Emerson 
and  Lincoln  closeted  together  in  Washington,  dis- 
cussing the  subject.  This  was  in  1862,  when  Emer- 
son had  been  invited  to  speak  on  "American  Civiliza- 
tion." The  lecture  was  given  at  the  Smithsonian 
Institute.  Lincoln  and  his  cabinet  were  present,  and 
we  are  told  the  lecture  made  a  profound  impression. 
Emerson  is  described  as  having  seemed  inspired 
through  nearly  the  whole  of  it,  especially  the  part 
referring  to  slavery  and  the  war. 

Emerson  read  his  Boston  Hymn  at  a  Jubilee 
Concert  in  Boston,  when,  on  January  1,  1863,  the 
emancipation  proclamation  was  issued,  and  the  "Vol- 
untaries" were  published  later  in  the  year.  Mr. 
George  Willis  Cooke,  in  his  most  interesting  life 
of  Emerson,  has  well  summed  up  Emerson's  place  in 
the  great  conflict: 

"Emerson  was  neither  a  zealous  agitator  nor  an 
enthusiastic  worker  in  this  great  controversy;  for  he 
was  unfitted  for  both  by  nature  and  by  reason  of  his 
views  of  human  progress.  .  .  .  As  the  agitation 
proceeded,  and  brave  men  took  part  in  it,  and  it  rose 
to  a  spirit  of  moral  grandeur,  he  gave  a  heartier  as- 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      221 

sent  to  the  outward  methods  adopted.  His  faith  in 
Brown,  his  immediate  insight  into  the  rare  qualities 
of  that  true  hero,  gave  him  a  greater  zeal  and  a  larger 
confidence  in  the  spirit  and  purposes  of  the  North. 
Few  literary  men,  with  natures  so  meditative  and 
withdrawn  from  all  material  pursuits,  have  given  so 
much  thought  and  effort  to  such  a  cause.  A  student, 
a  poet,  a  seer,  the  spiritual  interpreter  of  our  times, 
with  no  capacity  for  joining  in  the  conflicts  of  men, 
he  yet  looked  with  eager  eyes  upon  every  phase  of 
this  great  movement,  watched  it  with  growing  hope, 
had  faith  in  the  triumph  of  freedom  and  love,  gave 
such  aid  as  he  could,  and  all  his  sympathies,  to  those 
seeking  the  emancipation  of  the  poor  and  oppressed." 

There  is  little  to  relate  of  either  Longfellow  or 
Holmes  in  this  struggle.  They  neither  of  them  took 
any  active  interest  in  the  agitation,  yet  when  the  time 
came  each  contributed  his  literary  quota.  Longfel- 
low's slim  book  of  anti-slavery  poems,  sentimental 
and  romantic  as  they  are,  yet  aroused  at  the  time  a: 
tremendous  amount  of  enthusiasm,*  and  had  their 
share  in  strengthening  feeling  against  the  evil. 
Holmes  was  for  a  long  period  not  to  be  convinced  by 
the  arguments  of  Garrison  that  the  negro  had  any 
claims ;  besides,  his  sense  of  the  ridiculous  was  aroused 
by  the  peculiarities  of  reformers,  one  of  the  disad- 
vantages of  a  predilection  for  being  more  funny  than 
you  ought  to  be.  But  by  the  time  the  war  for  the 
Union  arrived  his  opinions  had  undergone  a  change, 
and  he  blazed  out  into  a  strenuous  and  excited  patriot. 

He  seems  only  once  to  have  made  a  public  speech 


*See  author's  "Longfellow's  Country.' 


222      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

on  the  subject,  and  that  was  a  Fourth  of  July  oration, 
delivered  in  Boston  in  1863.  His  appreciation  of  all 
the  points  at  issue  is  shown  in  this  oration,  and  we 
may  feel  assured  that  Holmes  was  saved  from  the 
early  error  of  his  ways,  and  that  it  was  not  only  in 
order  to  save  the  Union  that  his  patriotism  was  awak- 
ened. His  Hymn,  after  the  emancipation  proclama- 
tion, touches  a  note  which  shows  how  completely  his 
antipathy  to  the  early  anti-slavery  cause  had  died  out: 

"Ruler  of  Nations,  judge  our  cause 
If  we  have  kept  Thy  holy  laws, 
The  sons  of  Belial  curse  in  vain 
The  day  that  rends  the  captive's  chain. 

"Then,  God  of  vengeance !   Israel's  Lord ! 
Break  in  their  grasp  the  shield  and  sword, 
And  make  the  righteous  judgments  known 
Till  all  Thy  foes  are  overthrown." 

The  most  characteristic  of  Holmes's  war  poems  is 
"The  Sweet  Little  Man,"  dedicated  to  the  stay-at- 
home  rangers.  He  has  a  chance  in  this  to  indulge  his 
vein  of  sarcasm  and  humor  at  the  expense  of  the  stay- 
at-home  in  war  time: 

"All  the  fair  maidens  about  him  shall  cluster, 

Pluck  the  white  feathers  from  bonnet  and  fan, 
Make  him  a  plume  like  a  turkey-wing  duster, — 
That  is  the  crest  for  the  sweet  little  man  !" 

From  this  sketch  of  the  part  taken  by  our  poets 
in  the  history  of  their  own  time  and  its  use  as  subject 
matter  in  their  poetry,  it  will  be  seen  that  their  in- 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      223 

dividual  characteristics  come  out  as  distinctly  in  these 
poems  as  in  the  work  spoken  of  in  the  previous  chap- 
ters. The  fact  that  they  were  all  on  the  same  side 
does  not,  in  the  least,  affect  their  manner  of  treating 
the  subject.  We  see  the  same  careful,  painstaking 
Whittier,  painting  genre  pictures  now  instead  of  land- 
scapes. The  color  tone  varies  with  the  intensity  of 
the  themes,  and  all  are  illuminated  with  the  glow  of 
varied  personal  emotion.  Lowell,  too,  in  spite  of  the 
dramatic  setting  of  "The  Biglow  Papers,"  is  the  same 
Lowell,  expressing  himself  in  terms  of  knowledge  and 
thought,  even  under  the  deepest  stress  of  emotion. 
And  he  has,  here  as  elsewhere,  splendid  moments, 
when  his  thought  is  so  instinct  with  emotion  that  he 
touches  the  highest  pinnacle  of  art.  He  climbs  up  to 
sit  beside  Emerson  as  the  see-er  of  visions,  and  takes 
along  with  him  the  glint  of  the  precious  metals  and 
the  jewels  which  he  has  mined  in  less  inspired  mo- 
ments. Emerson,  true  to  his  own  line,  "Onward  and 
on  the  Eternal  Pan,  resteth  never  in  one  shape," 
lets  go  the  ladder  by  which  he  has  climbed,  and,  look- 
ing forth  from  his  high  place,  sees  only  the  naked 
thought  "so  majestical"  that  binds  men's  actions  with 
the  infinite. 

For  Longfellow's  romantic  temperament  the  sub- 
ject is  too  near  at  hand  to  be  treated  effectively.  We 
know  too  much  about  the  realities  to  be  satisfied  with 
anything  but  pictures  from  life.  We  can  accept 
Acadians  who  reveal  Swedish  characteristics,  wear 
Swedish  gowns  and  dwell  in  Swedish  houses,  but  ne- 
groes of  the  war-time  were  too  vitally  human  to  be 
permanently  acceptable  to  art  in  the  garments  of 
sentimentality.  It  might  almost  be  set  down  as  law 


224      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

that  past  history  may,  nay,  must  be  resuscitated  by 
the  poet  in  romantic  form  to  live  as  art,  but  present 
history  to  convince  as  art  must  be  true  at  least  to 
actual  conditions,  if  not  to  incident.  In  this  lies 
Whittier's  strength  in  his  anti-slavery  poems,  while 
it  is  very  possible  that  the  over-exaggeration  of  Bird- 
ofreedum,  who  is  typical,  not  real,  in  "The  Biglow 
Papers,"  may  cause  that  gentleman  to  be  less  ap- 
preciated as  time  goes  on. 

Bryant  was  even  less  qualified  than  Longfellow  to 
shine  in  subjects  for  poetic  treatment  based  upon 
contemporary  events.  That  is  probably  the  reason 
why  his  contribution  is  so  slim.  With  anti-slavery 
and  the  war  a  hundred  years  in  the  past,  he  could 
probably  have  written  a  stirring  poetical  synthesis  of 
the  whole  episode,  in  which  all  details  should  be  left 
to  the  reader's  imagination. 

Finally,  who  shall  say  how  much  of  Holmes's  pa- 
triotic fervor  was  due  to  those  same  military  displays 
at  Harvard,  which  he  enjoyed  as  a  small  boy?  Certain 
it  is  that  his  war  poems  are  almost  naively  warlike, 
and  in  spite  of  their  undoubted  sincerity  of  patriotism, 
give  one  a  little  the  impression  of  having  been  written 
for  the  occasion  rather  than  inspired  by  it. 

As  one  proceeds  in  the  study  of  these  New  England 
poets,  the  wonder  grows  that  at  the  very  dawn  of 
American  literature,  there  should  have  been  a  group 
of  men,  all  with  an  English  background,  who  showed 
such  distinct  individuality  in  their  temperaments  and 
poetic  methods. 


1 

PH 


FRIENDSHIP: 

PERSONAL  AND   LITERARY 


225 


"This  is  the  place;  whether  its  name  you  spell 
Tavern,  or  caravansera,  or  hotel. 
Would  I  could  steal  its  echoes!   You  should  find 
Such  store  of  vanished  pleasures  brought  to  mind: 
Such  feasts!  the  laughs  of  many  a  jocund  hour 
That  shook  the  mortar  from  King  George9s  tower; 
Such  guests!  What  famous  names  its  record  boasts 
Whose  owners  wander  in  the  mob  of  ghosts! 
Such  stories!  Every  beam  and  plank  is  filled 
With  juicy  wit  the  joyous  talkers  spilled, 
Ready  to  ooze  as  once  the  mountain  pine 
The  floors  are  laid  with  oozed  its  turpentine. 

"I  start;  I  wake;  the  vision  is  withdrawn, 
Its  figures  falling  like  the  stars  of  dawn; 
Crossed  from  the  roll  of  life  their  cherished  namef, 
And  memory9 s  pictures  fading  in  their  frames; 
Yet  life  is  lovelier  for  these  transient  gleams 
Of  buried  friendships;  blest  is  he  who  dreams!" 

HOLMES. 


226 


IV 

FRIENDSHIP:  PERSONAL  AND  LITERARY 

IT  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  think  upon,  that  all  of 
"our  poets"  were  knit  together  in  strong  personal 
bonds  of  friendship.  Their  meetings  and  part- 
ings remind  one  of  the  motions  of  the  planets  in  our 
own  solar  system.  Never  entirely  outside  of  one  an- 
other's influence,  the  sympathies  between  them  varied 
in  distance,  as  the  distances  between  the  planets,  and 
like  the  planets,  sometimes  two,  sometimes  three,  some- 
times all  of  them  moved  into  lines  forming  conjunc- 
tions or  oppositions  and  quadratures,  to  use  astronom- 
ical language,  upon  which  occasions,  being  human,  the 
phenomena  to  be  observed  are  dinners,  either  at  home 
or  in  delightful  clubs,  letters  from  distant  climes  at 
those  times  when,  like  other  men,  they  went  on  "pil- 
grimages," or  the  more  serious  approaches  caused  by 
some  political  crisis  or  important  literary  plan. 

Bryant  having  taken  up  his  life-work  in  New  York, 
was,  like  Neptune,  upon  the  outer  skirt  of  the  system 
and,  though  much  respected  and  honored  by  all,  did 
not  so  frequently  meet  with  them.  Whittier  also  was 
somewhat  isolated,  both  by  reason  of  his  distance,  in 
Amesbury,  from  the  centre  of  activity,  and  on  ac- 
count of  his  poor  health.  The  others  lived  within 
easy  reach  of  one  another.  Longfellow  and  Lowell, 

227 


228      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

a  ten-minutes'  walk  apart,  in  Cambridge;  Holmes, 
not  beyond  walking  distance,  in  Boston,  and  Emerson 
an  hour's  ride  away,  in  Concord.  If  Emerson  was 
not  literally  the  centre  around  which  all  the  others 
revolved,  he  was  at  least  near  the  centre,  like  Mercury, 
lost  in  sunlight.  No  matter  what  criticisms  his 
brother  poets,  in  their  all-seeing  wisdom,  might  have 
to  make  of  Emerson's  verse,  or  upon  his  transcenden- 
tal philosophy,  they  could  not  open  their  mouths  to 
speak  of  the  man  himself  without  uttering  poems. 
One  and  all  they  paid  tribute  to  his  unique  and  won- 
derful personality.  Longfellow  never  wrote  anything 
more  exquisite  than  his  words  about  Emerson  in  his 
diary : 

"Emerson  is  like  a  beautiful  portico,  in  a  lovely 
scene  of  nature.  We  stand  expectant,  waiting  for 
the  High  Priest  to  come  forth;  and  lo,  there  comes  a 
gentle  wind  from  the  portal,  swelling  and  subsiding; 
and  the  blossoms  and  the  vine-leaves  shake,  and  far 
away  down  the  green  fields  the  grasses  bend  and 
wave;  and  we  ask,  'When  will  the  High  Priest  come 
forth  and  reveal  to  us  the  truth?'  and  the  disciples 
say,  'He  has  already  gone  forth,  and  is  yonder  in  the 
meadows.'  'And  the  truth  he  was  to  reveal?'  'It  is 
nature;  nothing  more.' ' 

Holmes  tells  of  the  delight  of  sitting  beside  Emer- 
son at  dinner.  He  is  not  so  purely  poetic  as  Long- 
fellow in  his  comparisons.  He  is  charmed  by  Emer- 
son's delicious  voice  and  his  fine  sense  of  wit,  but  he 
does  not  think  of  a  beautiful  portico  in  a  lovely  scene 
of  nature.  His  semi-scientifico-poetic  mind  thinks 
of  a  cat  or  an  ant-eater  when  he  watches  the  delicate 
way  Emerson  steps  about  among  the  words  of  his 


BRYANT.     1794-1878 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      229 

vocabulary.  "...  If  you  have  seen  a  cat  picking  her 
footsteps  in  wet  weather,  you  have  seen  the  picture 
of  Emerson's  exquisite  intelligence,  feeling  for  its 
phrase  or  epithet, — sometimes  I  think  of  an  ant-eater 
singling  out  his  insects  as  I  see  him  looking  about  and 
at  last  seizing  his  noun  or  adjective, — the  best,  the 
only  one  which  would  serve  the  need  of  his  thought." 

Examples  might  be  multiplied  indefinitely,  show- 
ing how  widespread  was  the  recognition  of  a  quality 
in  Emerson  quite  apart  from  that  of  all  other  men. 
It  was  felt  by  the  humble  as  well  as  by  his  brother 
poets  and  others  of  high  degree  in  intellectual  mat- 
ters. Indeed,  the  former  were  not  only  won  by  his 
angelic  presence,  but  often  showed  a  more  spontane- 
ous perception  of  his  wisdom  than  those  sophisticated 
in  the  ways  of  thought,  as,  for  example,  the  congre- 
gation at  East  Lexington,  which  desired  so  much  to 
have  Emerson  for  their  minister  that  they  could  not 
settle  upon  any  one  else.  When  one  of  the  members 
was  asked  why  this  was  so,  she  replied:  "We  are  a 
very  simple  people  and  can  understand  no  one  but 
Mr.  Emerson."  One  of  the  mots  of  these  old  days 
which  seemed  particularly  to  delight  Longfellow,  who 
found  it  very  difficult  to  comprehend  Emerson's 
flights  of  thought,  was  a  remark  of  Jeremiah  Mason, 
who,  when  asked  if  he  could  understand  Emerson, 
replied:  "No,  I  can't,  but  my  daughters  can." 

"A  sharp  thing,"  Longfellow  called  this  retort,  but 
that  was  so  long  ago,  in  the  mediaeval  mists  of  the  last 
century  (1838) ,  that  it  was  before  men  had  come  any 
appreciable  distance  toward  the  recognition  that  a 
man's  daughters  might  be  his  intellectual  equals,  much 
less  that  they,  like  the  child  in  Maeterlinck's  "Les 


230      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Aveugles,"  might  perceive  the  truths  of  the  future 
more  clearly  because  not  blinded  by  intellectual  or 
religious  prejudices. 

If  we  want  to  see  all  the  poets  in  line  at  once,  there 
is  no  better  place  to  look  for  them  than  at  a  dinner  of 
the  "Saturday  Club,"  of  which  five  of  them  were 
members.  Bryant  was,  of  course,  too  far  away  to  be 
included  and,  for  some  reason,  could  not  be  induced 
to  dine  with  the  club,  even  when  he  was  in  Boston. 
Longfellow  records  the  fact,  but  does  not  give  any 
reason.  Besides  the  poets,  the  membership  of  this 
club  included  a  number  of  brilliant  men,  among 
whom  may  be  mentioned  Hawthorne,  Motley,  Agas- 
siz,  Dwight,  Sumner,  Dana, — and  others  of  a  later 
time — nearly  all  of  them  names  to  conjure  with.  No 
wonder  Lowell  could  write  home  from  England  that 
nowhere  had  he  had  better  talk  than  at  the  "Saturday 
Club." 

The  members,  if  we  may  judge  by  the  constant 
references  to  it  in  letters  or  diaries,  took  great  delight 
in  this  little  coterie,  but  of  them  all,  Holmes  seems 
to  have  been  its  most  devoted  member,  and  from  him 
we  get  more  glimpses  of  its  sessions  than  from  any 
one  other  member.  It  is  even  hinted  that  he  expanded 
in  its  sympathetic  atmosphere  to  such  a  degree  as 
occasionally  to  make  the  mistake  of  talking  too  much. 
That  might  have  been  trying  to  Lowell,  who  also  had 
a  great  gift  of  speech,  but  when  we  are  told  that  in 
his  talk  at  the  "Saturday  Club"  Holmes  was  more 
delightful  than  his  own  Autocrat  or  his  own  Pro- 
fessor, we  feel  that  to  hear  him  must  have  been  more 
interesting  even  to  Lowell  than  to  talk  himself.  Haw- 
thorne's teeth  must  have  gleamed  as  he  furtively 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      231 

looked  up  from  his  plate  and  cast  upon  Holmes  the 
sunbeams  of  his  appreciative  smile.  We  may  be  per- 
fectly sure,  too,  that  even  if  Holmes  did  have  a  ten- 
dency to  monopolize,  Lowell  would  sooner  or  later 
get  his  innings,  while  Emerson  must  have  -occupied 
considerable  time  picking  out  the  right  words,  for  it 
was  at  the  club  Holmes  observed  his  skill  in  this  par- 
ticular. Speaking  of  Holmes's  devotion  to  this  club, 
his  biographer  says: 

"Outside  the  sacred  penetralia  which  were  shut  with- 
in his  own  front  door,  nothing  else  in  Dr.  Holmes's 
life  gave  him  so  much  pleasure  as  did  this  club.  He 
loved  it;  he  hugged  the  thought  of  it.  When  he  was 
writing  to  Lowell  and  Motley  in  Europe,  he  seemed 
to  think  that  merely  to  name  'The  Club,'  was  enough 
to  give  a  genial  flavor  to  his  page.  He  would  tell 
who  were  present  at  the  latest  meeting,  and  where 
they  sat.  He  would  recur  to  those  who  used  to  come, 
and  mention  their  habitual  seats, — matters  which  his 
correspondents  already  knew  perfectly  well.  But  the 
names  were  sweet  things  in  his  mouth,  and,  in  fact,  he 
was  doing  one  of  the  deepest  acts  of  intimacy  in  thus 
touching  the  chord  of  the  dearest  reminiscence  which 
their  memories  held  in  common." 

All  this  feeling  finally  burst  forth  in  his  later  years 
in  the  poem,  "At  the  Saturday  Club,"  in  which  he 
describes  how, — 

"Loosed  from  its  chain,  along  the  wreck-strown  track 
Of  the  dead  years  my  soul  goes  travelling  back ; 
My  ghosts  take  on  their  robes  of  flesh,  it  seems : 
Dreaming  is  life;  nay,  life  less  life  than  dreams, 
So  real  are  the  shapes  that  meet  my  eyes." 


232      THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

He  draws  but  four  portraits  of  the  guests  who 
have  forever  departed,  Longfellow,  Agassiz,  Haw- 
thorne and  Emerson.  In  each  case  it  is  a  speaking 
likeness.  Through  his  eyes  we  see  at  least  these  four 
as  they  dined  at  Parker's  at  the  "Saturday  Club": 

"Here  sits  our  POET,  Laureate,  if  you  will. 
Long  has  he  worn  the  wreath,  and  wears  it  still. 

Kind,  soft-voiced,  gentle,  in  his  eye  there  shines 

The  ray  serene  that  filled  Evangeline's. 

Modest  he  seems,  not  shy ;  content  to  wait, 

Amid  the  noisy  clamor  of  debate, 

The  looked-for  moment  when  a  peaceful  word 

Smooths  the  rough  ripples  louder  tongues  have  stirred. 

In  every  tone  I  mark  his  tender  grace 

And  all  his  poems  hinted  in  his  face; 

What  tranquil  joy  his  friendly  presence  gives! 

How  could  I  think  him  dead?     He  lives!    He  lives! 


"But  who  is  he  whose  massive  frame  belies 
The  maiden  shyness  of  his  downcast  eyes? 
Who  broods  in  silence  till,  by  questions  pressed, 
Some  answer  struggles  from  his  laboring  breast? 
•          •          •          • 

Virile  in  strength,  yet  bashful  as  a  girl, 
Prouder  than  Hester,  sensitive  as  Pearl." 

Emerson  we  seem  to  see  with  especial  distinctness. 
His  rare  skill  in  finding  the  right  word  is  again  noted, 
more  poetically  than  in  the  former  instance.  He  is 
a  king  now,  choosing  jewels  for  his  bride  when  he 
speaks. 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      233 

"From  his  mild  throng  of  worshippers  released, 
Our  Concord  Delphi  sends  its  chosen  priest, 
Prophet  or  poet,  mystic,  sage  or  seer, 
By  every  title  always  welcome  here. 
Why  that  etherial  spirit's  frame  describe? 
You  know  the  race  marks  of  the  Brahmin  tribe, — 
The  spare,  slight  form,  the  sloping  shoulder's  droop, 
The  calm,  scholastic  mien,  the  clerkly  stoop, 
The  lines  of  thought  the  sharpened  features  wear, 
Carved  by  the  edge  of  keen  New  England  air. 

"List !  for  he  speaks  !    As  when  a  king  would  choose 
The  jewels  for  his  bride,  he  might  refuse 
This  diamond  for  its  flaw, — find  that  less  bright 
Than  those,  its  fellows,  and  a  pearl  less  white 
Than  fits  her  snowy  neck,  and  yet  at  last, 
The  fairest  gems  are  chosen,  and  made  fast 
In  golden  fetters ;  so,  with  light  delays 
He  seeks  the  fittest  word  to  fill  his  phrase; 
Nor  vain  nor  idle  his  fastidious  quest, 
His  chosen  word  is  sure  to  prove  the  best." 

This  club,  according  to  Dr.  Holmes,  started  with 
a  trio  or  quartette  consisting  of  Emerson  and  two  or 
three  of  his  admirers,  who  fell  into  the  habit  of  dining 
together  occasionally  at  Parker's.  Others  gathered 
around  them,  and  at  last  the  little  group  grew  into 
the  famous  club.  Edward  Everett  Hale  declares 
that  the  club  originated  with  a  dinner  given  by  Mr. 
Phillips  to  a  few  men,  including  Longfellow,  Lowell, 
Holmes  and  Emerson,  at  the  time  of  the  founding 
of  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  Mr.  Underwood,  who  was 
Phillips'  literary  man,  declares,  on  the  other  hand, 
that  this  dinner  gave  rise  to  the  Atlantic  Club,  or 


234      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Atlantic  dinners,  and  that  he  ought  to  know,  because 
the  invitations  and  reminders  were  always  in  his 
hands.  Holmes  insists  that  there  never  was  such  a 
thing  as  the  Atlantic  Club.  Mr.  John  T.  Morse,  Jr., 
Holmes's  biographer,  feeling,  evidently,  the  helpless- 
ness of  this  state  of  contradictions,  tries  to  clear  the 
matter  up  thus:  "Certain  it  is  that  nearly  all  the 
frequent  (male)  contributors  to  the  magazine,  who 
lived  within  convenient  reach  of  the  Parker  House, 
were  members  of  the  club,  or  doubtless  might  have 
been  so  had  they  desired;  and  that  for  a  long  while  a 
multiplicity  of  nerves  and  filaments  tied  the  magazine 
and  club  closely  together.  Equally  certain  it  is  that 
from  the  outset  a  few  members  of  the  club  were 
never  contributors  to  the  magazine,  and  that  all  these 
nerves  and  filaments  have  long  ere  the  present  day 
been  entirely  severed." 

An  entry  in  Longfellow's  diary,  February  28, 1857, 
three  months  before  the  first  Atlantic  dinner,  which 
was  May  5,  and  is  also  recorded  by  Longfellow, 
throws  some  light  on  the  matter:  "Saturday.  In 
town.  Dined  with  Agassiz  at  his  club,  which  he 
wishes  me  to  join,  and  I  think  I  shall."  Lowell, 
Emerson  and  Longfellow  had  talked  about  forming 
a  club  to  dine  once  a  month  as  far  back  as  February, 
1850,  when,  under  date  of  the  twenty-second,  there 
is  an  entry  in  Longfellow's  diary  to  that  effect. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  origin  of  the  Satur- 
day Club,  Holmes  himself  celebrates  not  only  that 
club,  but  writes  a  poem  for  an  Atlantic  dinner  in 
1874,  which  proves  that,  even  in  his  mind,  the  two 
series  of  dinners  were  quite  distinct  from  each  other. 

Finally,  another  entry  in  Longfellow's  diary,  May 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      235 

14,  1859,  is  to  the  effect  that  he  dined  that  day  at  the 
Atlantic  Club.  He  adds,  "the  Atlantic  is  not  the  Sat- 
urday Club,  though  many  members  belong  to  both." 

Upon  one  occasion  the  "Atlantic  Club"  ventured 
to  ask  also  its  women  contributors  to  a  dinner.  Long- 
fellow speaks  of  this,  and  remarks  that  Mrs.  Stowe 
wore  a  green  wreath  on  her  head,  which  he  thought 
very  becoming.  Colonel  T.  W.  Higginson  gives  an 
amusing  account  of  this  dinner  in  his  "Cheerful  Yes- 
terdays." Mrs.  Stowe  and  Miss  Prescott  were  the 
only  ladies  who  accepted.  The  former  did  so  with 
hesitation,  and  only  upon  the  condition  that  no  wine 
should  be  drunk. 

The  presence  of  ladies  and  the  absence  of  wine 
seemed  to  have  a  very  depressing  effect  upon  the 
other  Atlantic  contributors;  so  much  so  that  one  after 
another  they  sent  out  their  water  glasses  with  a  mys- 
terious whisper  to  the  waiter,  who  returned  with  them 
filled  with  a  rosy  liquid.  He  recalls  that  the  brilliant 
Holmes  devoted  himself  largely  to  demonstrating  to 
Dr.  Stowe  that  all  swearing  doubtlessly  originated  in 
the  free  use  made  by  the  pulpit  of  sacred  words  and 
phrases.  The  equally  brilliant  Lowell  was  trying  to 
prove  to  Mrs.  Stowe  at  the  same  time  that  "Tom 
Jones"  was  the  best  novel  ever  written.  It  is  not 
surprising  that,  owing  to  the  mischievousness  of  these 
two,  Dr.  Stowe  told  Whittier  that  he  and  Mrs.  Stowe 
found  the  conversation  at  the  club  not  quite  what 
they  had  been  led  to  expect,  though  no  doubt  they 
were  all  very  distinguished  men. 

Besides  Saturday  Club  dinners  and  Atlantic  din- 
ners, our  poets,  two  or  more  of  them,  often  met  at 
dinners  for  gala  occasions.  One  of  the  most  interest- 


236      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

ing  of  these  must  have  been  the  celebration  by  the 
Burns  Club  of  the  centennial  of  that  poet's  birth, 
January  25,  1859.  Emerson  was  there,  and  gave 
a  fine  address,  in  which  he  expressed  the  highest 
appreciation  of  Burns.  Lowell  was  there  also,  and 
he  tells  of  the  effect  made  upon  him  by  Emerson's 
speech:  "Every  word  seemed  to  have  just  dropped 
down  to  him  from  the  clouds.  He  looked  far 
away  over  the  heads  of  his  hearers  with  a  vague 
kind  of  expectation,  as  into  some  private  heaven 
of  invention,  and  the  winged  period  came  at  last 
to  obey  the  spell.  'My  dainty  Ariel,'  he  seemed 
murmuring,  as  he  cast  down  his  eyes  as  if  in  depreca- 
tion of  the  frenzy  of  applause,  and  caught  another 
sentence  from  the  sibylline  leaves  that  lay  before  him 
ambushed  behind  a  dish  of  fruit,  and  seen  only  by 
the  nearest  neighbors.  Every  sentence  brought  down 
the  house  as  I  never  saw  one  brought  down  before; 
and  it  is  not  so  easy  to  hit  Scotsmen  with  a  sentiment 
that  has  no  hint  of  native  brogue  in  it.  I  watched— 
for  it  was  an  interesting  study — how  the  quick  sym- 
pathy ran  flashing  from  face  to  face  down  the  long 
tables  like  an  electric  spark,  thrilling  as  it  went,  and 
then  exploded  in  a  thunder  of  plaudits.  I  watched 
till  tables  and  faces  vanished,  for  I,  too,  found  my- 
self caught  up  in  the  common  enthusiasm,  and  my 
excited  fancy  set  me  under  the  bema  listening  to  him 
who  fulmined  over  Greece." 

Judge  Hoar  said  of  this  address  that  it  surprised 
him  as  much  to  hear  of  Emerson's  speaking  on  Burns 
as  it  did  to  hear  of  Holmes  writing  a  life  of  Emerson. 
Emerson  evidently  shared  in  this  surprise,  according 
to  a  note  of  his  in  Sanborn's  Recollections.  He  could 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      237 

not  comprehend  why  his  address  had  aroused  such 
enthusiasm,  for  he  had  never  had  much  opinion  of 
Burns,  but  had  read  him  over  to  better  purpose.  Still 
he  had  but  a  short  time  in  which  to  prepare  himself. 
Lowell  himself  contributed  a  poem,  and  Whittier, 
though  not  present,  sent  one,  which  was  read  by  Em- 
erson. 

Whittier  owed  more  of  a  debt  to  Burns  than  the 
others,  for  it  was  Burns  who  first  brought  him  to 
a  consciousness  of  beauty,  and  aroused  his  latent 
talent  for  poetry.  His  school-teacher,  Mr.  Coffin, 
who  was  in  the  habit  of  reading  to  Whittier  and  his 
mother  and  aunt,  brought,  one  evening,  a  volume  of 
Burns.  It  is  recorded  that  Whittier  was  spellbound 
with  delight;  the  teacher  left  the  book  with  him,  and, 
as  Whittier  tells,  in  a  charming  poem  to  Burns,  writ- 
ten some  time  before  the  Burns  celebration,  from  that 
time— 

"I  saw  through  all  familiar  things 

The  romance  underlying; 
The  joys  and  griefs  that  plume  the  wings 
Of  Fancy  skyward  flying. 

"I  saw  the  same  blithe  day  return, 

The  same  sweet  fall  of  even, 
That  rose  on  wooded  Craigie-burn 
And  sank  on  crystal  Devon. 

"I  matched  with  Scotland's  heathery  hills 

The  sweetbrier  and  the  clover; 
With  Ayr  and  Doon,  my  native  rills 
Their  wood  hymns  chantingr  over." 


238      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Holmes  was  there  also,  with  a  poem.  With  one 
accord  they  eulogize  the  art  and  humanity  of  Burns, 
and,  excepting  Emerson,  with  that  conscientiousness 
characteristic  of  the  admirers  of  Burns,  do  not  fail 
to  touch  upon  his  faults,  albeit  lightly,  and  then  for- 
give him  for  them.  Even  the  ascetic  Whittier  has 
no  heart  for  censure,— 

"To-day  be  every  fault  forgiven 

Of  him  in  whom  we  j  oy ! 
We  take,  with  thanks,  the  gold  of  Heaven 
And  leave  the  earth's  alloy." 

Emerson  follows,  literally,  this  ideal,  and  speaks 
only  of  that  which  was  fine  and  beautiful  in  the  char- 
acter and  poetry  of  Burns.  It  is  depressing  when 
enthusiasm  for  the  good  and  the  beautiful  must  be 
tempered  by  the  consciousness  of  pitiful  failures,  and, 
except  for  purposes  of  psychological  analysis,  to  re- 
gard the  highest  in  a  human  being  as  his  real  self,  and 
let  the  rest  go,  as  Emerson  does,  is  wiser  and  truly 
more  forgiving  than  to  dim  the  picture  with  smoke, 
and  then  try  to  brush  off  the  soot.  This  was  probably 
the  secret  of  the  magnetism  exerted  by  Emerson  on 
that  day,  of  which  Lowell  speaks  in  such  admiring 
terms.  Emerson  stretched  forth  his  hands  to  Burns, 
not  only  because  of  his  art,  not  only  because  of  his 
humanness,  but  because  he  thought  of  him  as  a  power- 
ful force  in  the  great  progressive  movement  of  the 
modern  world.  On  this  point  he  said :  "Not  Latimer, 
nor  Luther,  struck  more  telling  blows  against  false 
theology  than  did  this  brave  singer.  The  Confession 
of  Augsburg,  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  the 


EMERSON.     1803-1882 
From  a  photograph  by  Ethel  C.  Brown 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      289 

French  Rights  of  Man,  and  the  Marseillaise,  are  not 
more  weighty  documents,  in  the  history  of  freedom, 
than  the  songs  of  Burns." 

Longfellow  was  prevented  by  a  fit  of  lumbago 
from  attending  this  dinner,  whereat  he  was  greatly 
chagrined,  and  from  his  diary  we  catch  a  glimpse  of 
him  eagerly  reading  the  newspaper  account  the  next 
morning. 

Among  important  gala  occasions,  were  birthday  or 
farewell  dinners  to  each  other,  at  which  the  whole 
group  were,  if  possible,  present.  One  of  these  was 
a  farewell  dinner  to  Lowell  when  he  went  abroad  in 
the  spring  of  1855.  The  dinner  was  at  the  Revere 
House  in  Boston,  and  was  presided  over  by  Long- 
fellow, who  speaks  of  it  as  a  joyous  banquet,  one  of 
the  pleasantest  he  had  ever  attended — a  meeting  of 
friends  to  take  leave  of  one  whom  they  all  loved. 
Lowell,  too,  gives  a  glimpse  of  this  joyous  occasion, 
at  which  Holmes  not  only  repeated  charming  verses, 
but  sang  songs.  One  of  the  guests,  Rolker,  added 
much  to  the  hilarity  of  the  after-dinner  festivities  by 
reciting  two  stanzas,  beginning  "A  helf  to  ve  nort- 
ward  boun."  "He  gave  it  with  so  much  sentiment," 
Lowell  says,  "that  we  were  all  entirely  overcome,  and 
laughed  so  immoderately  that  the  brave  Rolker  at 
length  sat  down."  The  dinner  ended  with  all  singing 
"Auld  Lang  Syne"  in  true  college  style,  and  Lowell, 
at  the  advanced  age  of  thirty- six,  talks  about  feeling 
young  again.  The  verses  by  Holmes  are  to  be  found 
in  his  collected  poems,  "Farewell  to  J.  R.  Lowell," 
the  concluding  stanzas  of  which  show  in  what  a  happy 
vein  the  poem  was  written: 


240      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"Nay,  think  not  that  Friendship  has  called  us  in  vain 
To  join  the  fair  ring  ere  we  break  it  again ; 
There  is  strength  in  its  circle, — you  lose  the  bright  star, 
But  its  sisters  still  chain  it,  though  shining  afar. 

"I  give  you  one  health  in  the  juice  of  the  vine, 
The  blood  of  the  vineyard  shall  mingle  with  mine ; 
Thus,  thus  let  us  drain  the  last  dew-drops  of  gold, 
As  we  empty  our  hearts  of  the  blessings  they  hold." 

There  is  another  dinner  in  honor  of  Lowell  to  be 
recorded, — that  celebrating  his  seventieth  birthday,  a 
few  years  after  his  return  from  his  ambassadorship 
in  England,  in  1889.  It  was  given  at  the  Tavern 
Club,  and  presided  over  by  Mr.  Norton.  Holmes  was 
there,  and  read  a  poem,  but  of  the  other  poets  none 
was  left  except  Whittier,  who  does  not  seem  to  have 
been  present.  He  was,  however,  among  those  who 
sent  tributes  to  the  Lowell  Birthday  number  of  the 
New  York  Critic. 

At  Whittier's  seventieth  birthday  celebration,  De- 
cember 17,  1877,  Lowell  was  far  overseas,  looking 
forward  to  participation  in  the  brilliant  ceremonies 
attendant  upon  the  marriage  of  the  young  Spanish 
king,  and  soon  to  experience  his  first  bull-fight.  He 
expresses  in  a  letter  to  Longfellow,  about  this  time, 
a  feeling  of  homesickness.  He  misses  his  old  friend- 
ships. He  might  well  regret  not  being  present  at  the 
great  banquet  given  at  the  Hotel  Brunswick  by  the 
publishers  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  to  their  contribu- 
tors and  other  distinguished  guests,  in  honor  of  Whit- 
tier.  Mr.  H.  O.  Houghton  presided,  with  Whittier, 
Emerson  and  Longfellow  at  his  right,  Holmes,  How- 
ells  and  Warner  at  his  left.  The  Literary  World 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      241 

printed  the  same  month  a  Whittier  Birthday  number, 
to  which  all  the  distinguished  literati  of  the  country 
sent  greetings.  Among  those  of  his  old  friends  who 
sent  poems  were  Longfellow,  Dr.  Holmes,  Wm. 
Lloyd  Garrison,  Lydia  Maria  Child,  Lucy  Larcom; 
and  among  those  who  sent  letters  were  Richard  H. 
Dana,  W.  C.  Bryant,  George  Bancroft,  and  Harriet 
Beecher  Stowe.  Whittier  was  deeply  touched,  says 
his  biographer,  at  this  outpouring  of  the  hearts  of  his 
literary  friends,  and  uttered  his  characteristic  "Re- 
sponse" !  He  was  not  so  enthusiastic  about  the  dinner, 
and  when  told  of  it  refused  at  first  to  go.  He  wrote 
to  his  niece,  "They  are  wanting  to  make  a  fuss  over 
my  birthday  on  the  17th.  I  think  I  have  put  a  stop 
to  it."  However,  he  was  induced  to  attend,  and  upon 
his  introduction  by  Mr.  Houghton,  the  company  arose 
and  cheered.  Whittier's  little  speech  was  not  very 
spontaneous.  He  really  did  not  altogether  like  being 
a  centre  of  interest  on  account  of  his  age,  a  fact  he 
had  confided  to  his  niece,  to  whom  he  had  said :  "It  is 
bad  enough  to  be  old  without  being  twitted  of  it." 
The  writer  has  attended  birthday  dinners  to  some  of 
to-day's  brilliant  literary  lights,  and  has  been  im- 
pressed with  the  fact  that  the  speakers  descant  upon 
the  age  of  the  person  they  would  honor  much  more 
than  is  necessary,  or  is  in  quite  good  taste,  as  if  age 
were  the  one  single  attribute  of  humanity.  When  the 
cheering  subsided,  therefore,  Whittier  made  this  un- 
inspired little  speech : 

"You  must  know  you  are  not  to  expect  a  speech 
from  me  to-night.  I  can  only  say  that  I  am  very  glad 
to  meet  with  my  friends  of  the  Atlantic,  a  great  many 
contributors  to  which  I  have  only  known  through 


242      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

their  writings,  and  that  I  thank  them  for  the  recep- 
tion they  have  given  me.  When  I  supposed  that  I 
would  not  be  able  to  attend  this  ceremony,  I  placed, 
myself,  in  my  friend  Longfellow's  hands,  a  little  bit 
of  verse,  that  I  told  him,  if  it  were  necessary,  I  wished 
he  would  read.  My  voice  is  of  'a  timorous  nature  and 
rarely  to  be  heard  above  the  breath.'  Mr.  Longfellow 
will  do  me  the  favor  to  read  the  writing.  I  shall  be 
very  much  obliged  to  him,  and  hope  at  his  ninetieth 
anniversary  some  of  the  younger  men  will  do  as  much 
for  him." 

Longfellow  then  read  the  "Response" : 

"Beside  that  milestone  where  the  level  sun, 

Nigh  unto  setting,  sheds  his  last  low  rays 
On  word  and  work  irrevocably  done, 
Life's  blending  threads  of  good  and  ill  outspun, 

I  hear,  O  friends,  your  words  of  cheer  and  praise, 
Half  doubtful  if  myself  or  otherwise, 
Like  him  who,  in  the  old  Arabian  joke, 
A  beggar  slept  and  crowned  Caliph  woke. 
Thanks  not  the  less.     With  not  unglad  surprise 
I  see  my  life-work  through  your  partial  eyes; 
Assured,  in  giving  to  my  home-taught  songs 
A  higher  value  than  of  right  belongs, 
You  do  but  read  between  the  written  lines 
The  finer  grace  of  unfulfilled  designs." 

Emerson,  who  was  not  given  to  writing  verses  on 
his  friends,  although  there  are  one  or  two  occasions 
when  he  did,  read  Whittier's  "Ichabod,"  which  had 
been  written  in  protest  of  Webster's  speech  in  support 
of  Compromise  and  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law.  There 
was  not  one  among  our  poets  who  did  not  feel  at  the 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      243 

time  Webster  made  this  speech,  as  Whittier  expresses 
himself  in  the  first  stanza  of  this  poem: 

"So  fallen !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  once  he  wore ! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 
Forevermore !" 

— but  few  of  them  who  would  have  been  so  willing 
to  treat  him  with  the  gentleness  shown  in  the  second 
and  subsequent  stanzas  unless,  indeed,  it  might  be 
Emerson,  though  even  he  pictured  the  car  of  slavery, 
with  all  its  abominations,  and  Webster  as  a  leading 
horse,  straining  to  drag  on  this  car.  Whittier  pre- 
ferred to  think  of  Webster  as  dead: 

"All  else  is  gone;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  is  fled: 

When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 
The  man  is  dead! 

"Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 
And  hide  the  •shame." 

Emerson,  in  a  couplet,  strikes  this  uncompromising 
blow: 

"Why  did  all  manly  gifts  in  Webster  fail? 
He  wrote  on  Nature's  grandest  brow,  For  Sale.'* 

Holmes  also  read  a  poem  which,  as  well  as  paying 
tribute  to  Whittier,  takes  very  clever  poetical  "snap- 


244      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

shots"  at  his  colleagues,  Longfellow,  Emerson,  and 
Lowell.    Here  is  Longfellow: 


"Though  in  Hebrew,  in  Sanscrit,  in  Choctaw  you  write, 
Sweet  singer  who  gave  us  the  Voices  of  Night, 
Though  in  buskin  and  slipper  your  song  may  be  shod, 
Or  the  velvety  verse  that  Evangeline  trod, 

"We  shall  say,  'You  can't  cheat  us, — we  know  it  is  you,' 
There  is  one  voice  like  that,  but  there  cannot  be  two, 
Maestro,  whose  chant  like  the  dulcimer  rings : 
And  the  woods  will  be  hushed  while  the  nightingale  sings." 

Holmes  exclaims:  "How  we  all  know  each  other!" 
and,  we  may  add,  how  he  makes  us  know  them!  Em- 
erson, Lowell,  and  Whittier  follow  in  order,  and  bet- 
ter photographs  of  their  essential  qualities  could  not 
be  found: 

"And  he,  so  serene,  so  majestic,  so  true, 
Whose  temple  hypasthral  the  planets  shine  through, 
Let  us  catch  but  five  words  from  that  mystical  pen, 
We  should  know  our  one  sage  from  all  children  of  men. 

"And  he  whose  bright  image  no  distance  can  dim, 
Through  a  hundred  disguises  we  can't  mistake  him, 
Whose  play  is  all  earnest,  whose  wit  is  the  edge 
(With  a  beetle  behind)  of  a  sham-splitting  wedge. 

"Do  you  know  whom  we  send  you,  Hidalgos  of  Spain? 
Do  you  know  your  old  friends  when  you  see  them  again  ? 
Hosea  was  Sancho !   you  Dons  of  Madrid, 
But  Sancho  that  wielded  the  lance  of  the  Cid ! 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      245 

"And  the  wood-thrush  of  Essex, — you  know  whom  I  mean, 
Whose  song  echoes  round  us  while  he  sits  unseen, 
Whose  heart-throbs  of  verse  through  our  memories  thrill 
Like  a  breath  from  the  wood,  like  a  breeze  from  the  hill. 

"So  fervid,  so  simple,  so  loving,  so  pure, 
We  hear  but  one  strain  and  our  verdict  is  sure, — 
Thee  cannot  elude  us, — no  further  we  search, — 
'Tis  Holy  George  Herbert  cut  loose  from  his  church! 

"We  think  it  the  voice  of  a  seraph  that  sings, — 
Alas !  we  remember  that  angels  have  wings, — 
What  story  is  this  of  the  day  of  his  birth? 
Let  him  live  to  a  hundred,  we  want  him  on  earth !" 

The  homage  he  received  upon  this  occasion  was 
prized  by  Whittier,  but  he  expressed  himself  as  being 
humbled  rather  than  exalted  by  praise  which  he  mod- 
estly said  he  did  not  deserve,  for  "As  the  swift  years 
pass,  the  Eternal  Realities  seem  taking  the  place  of 
the  shadows  and  illusions  of  time." 

How  different  was  Lowell's  feeling  upon  the  sim- 
ilar occasion!  He  wrote  to  Mrs.  Leslie  Stephen,  "I 
was  dined  on  my  birthday,  and  praised  to  a  degree 
that  would  have  satisfied  you,  most  partial  even  of 
your  sex.  But  somehow  I  liked  it,  and  indeed  none 
but  a  pig  could  have  helped  liking  the  affectionate 
way  it  was  done.  I  suppose  it  is  a  sign  of  weakness 
in  me  somewhere,  but  I  can't  help  it.  I  do  like  to  be 
liked.  It  gives  me  a  far  better  excuse  for  being  about 
(and  in  everybody's  way)  than  having  written  a  fine 
poem  does.  That'll  be  all  very  well  when  one  is  under 
the  mould.  But  I  am  not  sure  whether  one  will  care 
for  it  much." 


246      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

There  is  no  record  of  a  public  or  semi-public  din- 
ner to  celebrate  Longfellow's  seventieth  birthday, 
which  fell  in  the  same  year  as  Whittier's.  On  his 
seventy-second  birthday  he,  however,  received  a  trib- 
ute well  worth  while.  The  school  children  of  Cam- 
bridge, as  all  the  world  knows,  presented  him,  at 
a  festival  gathering  of  all  the  schools,  with  a  chair 
made  from  the  chestnut  tree  under  which  the  village 
smithy  stood.*  He  mentions  a  farewell  dinner  at 
Fields'  in  his  honor,  when  he  went  abroad  in  1868, 
"very  beautiful  with  flowers  and  all  pleasant  things," 
and  that  Lowell  and  Holmes  were  present,  and  a  din- 
ner in  honor  of  his  fiftieth  birthday,  given  by  the  Sons 
of  Maine.  At  the  Fields'  dinner  Holmes  read  his 
verses,  beginning, — 

"Our  Poet,  who  has  taught  the  Western  breeze 
To  waft  his  songs  before  him  o'er  the  seas, 
Will  find  them  wheresoe'er  his  wanderings  reach, 
Borne  on  the  spreading  tide  of  English  speech, 
Twin  with  the  rhythmic  waves  that  kiss  the  farthest  beach." 

The  Atlantic  breakfast  to  Holmes,  in  honor  of  his 
seventieth  birthday,  was  another  great  occasion.  It 
was  given  December  3,  1879,  although  his  birthday 
fell  in  July.  But  that  was  an  unseasonable  time  for 
social  functions.  Howells  presided  at  this,  and  one 
feels  that  a  newer  generation  has  come  upon  the  scene. 
Ladies  were  also  included  upon  this  occasion,  and, 
their  shyness  of  former  years  having  vanished,  they 
appeared  in  such  numbers  that  it  has  been  described 


*See  "Longfellow's  Country." 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      247 

as  a  brilliant  gathering  of  men  and  women,  and  was 
regarded  as  even  more  successful  than  Whittier's  din- 
ner. Thus  the  world  moves.  None  of  our  group  con- 
tributed poems  to  the  occasion,  but  some  of  them  must 
have  been  present,  for  Holmes,  writing  to  Lowell 
about  it,  says : 

"My  friends  were  there  in  great  force,  except  Long- 
fellow, who  sends  me  an  affectionate  note  this  morn- 
ing, telling  me  how  he  was  prevented  by  a  sharp  and 
sudden  attack  of  influenza  from  coming.  Of  course, 
a  banquet  from  which  the  two  L's  are  absent  is  shorn 
of  its  brightest  ornaments,  but  we  did — they  did,  I 
should  say — as  well  as  possible  under  the  circum- 
stances, and  this  morning  I  look  back  on  all  the  fine 
things  that  were  said  and  sung  about  me,  and  feel 
like  a  royal  mummy  just  embalmed.  The  only  thing 
is  that,  in  hearing  so  much  about  one's  self,  it  makes 
him  think  he  is  dead  and  reading  his  obituary  notices." 

Longfellow  refers  to  many  a  little  private  dinner 
at  his  own  home  or  elsewhere,  at  which  one  or  other 
of  the  poets  were  present,  the  other  guests  being  Fel- 
ton,  Sumner,  Agassiz,  Hawthorne,  Fields  or  Dana — 
all  intimately  associated  with  one  another,  and,  of 
course,  there  were  sometimes  guests  not  so  constantly 
of  their  company. 

The  record  of  these  dinners  gives  one  a  general 
view  of  the  social  doings  in  which  our  poets  were  for 
many  years  constantly  associated.  The  view  is,  how- 
ever, only  an  external  one ;  their  true  meaning  for  one 
another  comes  out  in  their  more  personal  relations. 
While  they  were  all  friends,  each  being  so  much  in- 
terested in  the  work  of  all  the  others  that  in  their 
Saturday  Club  and  Atlantic  relations  they  were 


248      THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

dubbed  "The  Mutual  Admiration  Society,"  there 
were  especial  affinities  between  them  at  certain  periods 
of  their  lives. 

In  his  college  days,  Longfellow  contributed  verse 
to  a  magazine  called  the  U.  S.  Literary  Gazette.  In 
the  Galaxy,  another  magazine,  his  name  was  men- 
tioned favorably,  along  with  Bryant's.  One  of  his 
poems,  "Autumnal  Nightfall,"  was  considered  so 
beautiful  that  it  was  thought  to  have  been  written  by 
Bryant  himself,  and,  as  Longfellow's  correspondent 
from  the  North  American  Review  said,  "If  you  are 
aware  of  the  estimation  in  which  he  is  held  here,  you 
will  think  this  a  high  compliment."  These  are  in- 
dications that  the  early  influence  of  Bryant  upon 
Longfellow  was  a  strong  one.  In  the  fifteenth  num- 
ber of  the  Gazette,  November,  1824,  Longfellow  still 
being  an  undergraduate,  there  appeared  upon  the 
same  page  of  the  magazine  two  sonnets  by  Bryant, 
and  a  poem,  entitled  "Thanksgiving,"  by  Longfel- 
low. The  Bryant  influence  is  plainly  visible  in  this 
early  poem,  which  begins, — 

"When  first  in  ancient  times,  from  Jubal's  tongue, 
The  tuneful  anthem  filled  the  morning  air" — 

and  ends  with  an  especially  imitative  strain,— 

"Have  our  mute  lips  no  hymn — our  souls  no  song? 
Let  him  that  in  the  summer  day  of  youth 
Keeps  pure  the  holy  fount  of  youthful  feeling, 
And  him  that  in  the  nightfall  of  his  years 
Lies  down  in  his  last  sleep  and  shuts  in  peace 
His  dim,  pale  eyes  on  life's  short  wayfaring, 
Praise  Him  that  rules  the  destiny  of  man." 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      249 

Many  years  after  this  Longfellow  spoke  of  his 
early  admiration  in  a  letter  to  Bryant: 

"Let  me  say  what  a  stanch  friend  and  admirer  of 
yours  I  have  been  from  the  beginning,  and  acknowl- 
edge how  much  I  owe  to  you,  not  only  of  delight  but 
of  culture.  When  I  look  back  upon  my  early  years 
I  cannot  but  smile  to  see  how  much  in  them  is  really 
yours.  It  was  an  involuntary  imitation,  which  I  most 
readily  confess,  and  say,  as  Dante  says  to  Virgil,— 
'Tu  se  'lo  mio  maestro,  e  '1  mio  autore.' ' 

The  meeting  between  the  poets  did  not  occur,  how- 
ever, until  about  a  dozen  years  after  the  association 
of  their  names  in  the  Gazette^  and  then  by  accident, 
in  Heidelberg.  Hearing  that  Bryant  was  there  with 
his  family,  Longfellow  called  upon  him ;  the  visit  was 
immediately  returned.  They  took  some  long  walks 
together  over  the  hills,  and  we  are  told  that  Bryant's 
mild,  expressive  eye,  his  calm  countenance,  and  his 
thoughtful  spirit  were  very  attractive  to  Longfellow. 
Unfortunately  for  an  acquaintance  so  auspiciously 
begun,  Bryant  was  suddenly  called  home,  and,  leav- 
ing his  family  in  Germany,  returned  to  America. 
Longfellow  took  many  pleasant  little  trips  with  Mrs. 
Bryant  and  her  family  during  the  remainder  of  their 
stay,  and  thus  ended  a  meeting  which  might  have 
ripened  into  intimacy.  An  occasional  meeting  and 
a  few  letters  make  up  the  sum  total  of  their  subse- 
quent relations  to  each  other.  One  of  the  meetings, 
unexpected,  like  the  first,  was  at  "The  Verandah,"  the 
famous  summer  hotel  near  Portland,  whither  Long- 
fellow went  in  the  summer  of  1847.  "Who  should 
appear  at  the  dinner  table  to-day  but  the  Bryants!" 
writes  Longfellow;  and  another  was  when  Bryant 


250      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

visited  Boston  in  1861,  when  calls  were  exchanged 
and  dinners  given  to  the  distinguished  visitor.  At 
this  time  Longfellow  writes  that  he  never  saw  Bryant 
so  gentle  and  pleasant. 

Longfellow,  of  course,  drifted  away  from  the  early 
poetic  influence  of  Bryant,  but  he  continued  to  feel 
genuine  admiration  for  Bryant's  verse,  while  the  lat- 
ter expresses  the  warmest  admiration  for  his  younger 
contemporary,  to  whom  he  wrote,  after  reading  a 
collection  of  Longfellow's  poems,  published  in  1846: 
"They  appear  to  me  more  beautiful  than  upon  for- 
mer readings,  much  as  I  then  admired  them.  The 
exquisite  music  of  your  verse  dwells  more  than  ever 
on  my  ear ;  and  more  than  ever  am  I  affected  by  their 
depth  of  feeling  and  spirituality,  and  the  creative 
power  with  which  they  set  before  us  passages  from 
the  great  drama  of  life." 

The  relations  between  Bryant  and  Lowell  were  not 
quite  so  smooth  as  those  between  Bryant  and  Long- 
fellow. Bryant  did  not  have  a  proper  regard  for 
Lowell's  poetry,  and  in  a  review  of  it  in  the  New 
York  Evening  Post,  praised  only  one  poem,  "The 
Morning  Glory,"  which  happened  to  be  by  Mrs. 
Lowell.  He  also  hinted  that  Lowell  had  borrowed 
from  him  in  his  poem,  "To  the  Past."  No  wonder 
Lowell  was  a  little  provoked,  although  he  declares 
he  was  only  amused,  for  the  two  poems  have  nothing 
in  common  but  the  title.  Bryant  sees  the  Past  as  an 
abstraction,  and  ends  with  a  personal  and  rather  sen- 
timental touch.  Lowell  sees  the  Past  in  historic  sym- 
bols, and  leads  up  to  its  meaning  intellectually  for 
the  present.  Lowell's  "amusement"  is  expressed  cer- 
tainly with  some  tartness,  if  not  with  rancor:  "I 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      251 

steal  from  him,  indeed!  If  he  knew  me  he  would  not 
say  so.  When  I  steal  I  shall  go  to  a  specie  vault,  not 
to  a  till.  Does  he  think  that  he  invented  the  past, 
and  has  a  prescriptive  title  to  it?  Do  not  think  I  am 
provoked.  I  am  simply  amused.  If  he  had  riled  me, 
I  might  have  knocked  him  into  a  cocked  hat  in  my 
satire.  But  that,  on  second  thoughts,  would  be  no 
revenge,  for  it  might  make  him  President,  a  cocked 
hat  being  now  the  chief  qualification.  It  would  be 
more  severe  to  knock  him  into  the  middle  of  next 
week,  as  that  is  in  the  future,  and  he  has  such  a  par- 
tiality toward  the  past."  We  never  think  of  Bryant 
now  except  as  the  venerable,  much  beloved  poet,  who 
was  one  of  the  bulwarks  of  the  Nation  at  a  time  when 
it  was  sorely  in  need,  and  consequently  Lowell's  words 
about  him  seem  unnecessarily  irreverent. 

At  that  time,  however,  Bryant  was  still  a  com- 
paratively young  man,  and  had  not  gone  through  the 
trial  fire  of  the  war.  It  happened,  too,  that  Lowell 
was  writing  his  "Fable  for  Critics,"  and  had  just 
finished  his  characterizing  of  Bryant,  which  he  says 
is  funny  and,  as  far  as  he  could  make  it,  unmitigably 
just.  The  criticism  of  Bryant  does  not  to-day  im- 
press one  as  being  either  remarkably  funny  or  abso- 
lutely just,  but  rather  as  flippant  and  unpenetrating, 
with  no  clear  perception  of  either  his  good  points  or 
his  faults.  He  strikes  his  hardest  blow  in  the  first 
stanza: 

"There  is  Bryant,  as  quiet,  as  cool,  and  as  dignified 
As  a  smooth,  silent  iceberg,  that  never  is  ignified, 
Save  when  by  reflection  't  is  kindled  o'  nights 
With  a  semblance  of  flame  by  the  chill  Northern  Lights. 


252      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

He  may  rank  (Griswold  says  so)  first  bard  of  your  nation 
(There's  no  doubt  he  stands  in  supreme  iceolation), 
Your  topmost  Parnassus  he  may  set  his  heel  on, 
He's  too  smooth  and  too  polished  to  hang  any  zeal  on." 

Lowell  speaks  of  adding  some  complimentary 
verses  after  the  comic  part  when  he  is  in  a  happier 
mood,  by  which  he  probably  means  the  closing  lines: 

"If  I  call  him  an  iceberg,  I  don't  mean  to  say 
There  is  nothing  in  that  which  is  grand  in  its  way ; 
He  is  almost  the  one  of  your  poets  that  knows 
How  much  grace,  strength,  and  dignity  lie  in  Repose; 
If  he  sometimes  fall  short,  he  is  too  wise  to  mar 
His  thought's  modest  fullness  by  going  too  far." 

To  do  Lowell  justice,  he  was  never  quite  easy  in 
his  mind  about  his  treatment  of  Bryant  in  this  fable, 
and  declared  some  eight  years  later  that  he  did  not 
do  Mr.  Bryant  justice  in  it,  and  that  he  regretted 
what  he  had  said  lest  it  might  seem  personal,  adding 
that  it  had  something  of  youth's  infallibility  in  it,  or, 
at  any  rate,  of  youth's  irresponsibility.  He  recom- 
mended Bryant,  over  himself,  about  this  time  also, 
to  W.  J.  Stillman,  the  editor  of  the  Crayon,  to  whom 
he  wrote:  "I  wish  your  journal  to  succeed.  Remem- 
ber that  success  is  the  only  atmosphere  through  which 
your  ideas  will  look  lovely  to  the  public  you  wish  to 
influence.  Bryant's  name  will  help  you  more  than 
mine;  therefore,  take  him  first." 

Bryant  wrote  at  least  one  poem  which  aroused  in 
Lowell  a  feeling  of  genuine  enthusiasm,  "Among  the 
Trees."  Of  this  he  wrote  to  Fields :  "It  was  pleasant 
to  see  him  (Bryant)  renewing  his  youth  like  the 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      253 

eagles,  in  that  fine  poem  about  the  trees.  He  de- 
serves to  have  a  tree  planted  over  his  grave,  which  I 
wouldn't  say  of  many  men.  There  was  a  very  high 
air  about  those  verses,  a  tone  of  the  best  poetic  society, 
that  was  very  delightful.  Tell  Mrs.  Fields  that  I 
think  they  justify  his  portrait." 

Lowell  made  final  amends  to  Bryant  in  his  poem, 
"On  Board  the  76,"  for  Bryant's  seventieth  birthday, 
which  shows  a  remarkable  appreciation  of  his  services 
to  the  cause  of  freedom  during  the  war,  considering 
the  fact  that  he  (Lowell)  never  read  the  New  York 
Evening  Post,  and  had  supposed  that  it  was  mainly 
Godwin's.  The  closing  stanzas  of  this  stirring  poem 
blot  out  the  flippancy  of  Lowell's  earlier  utterances: 

"But  there  was  one,  the  Singer  of  our  crew, 

Upon  whose  head  Age  waved  his  peaceful  sign, 

But  whose  red  heart's-blood  no  surrender  knew; 
And  couchant  under  brows  of  massive  line. 

The  eyes,  like  guns  beneath  a  parapet, 

Watched,  charged  with  lightnings  yet. 

"The  voices  of  the  hills  did  his  obey ; 

The  torrents  flashed  and  tumbled  in  his  song: 
He  brought  our  native  fields  from  far  away, 

Or  set  us  'mid  the  innumerable  throng 
Of  dateless  woods,  or  where  we  heard  the  calm 
Old  homestead's  evening  psalm. 

"But  now  he  sang  of  faith  to  things  unseen, 
Of  freedom's  birthright  given  to  us  in  trust; 

And  words  of  doughty  cheer  he  spoke  between, 
That  made  all  earthly  fortune  seem  as  dust, 

Matched  with  that  duty,  old  as  Time  and  new, 

Of  being  brave  and  true. 


254      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"We,  listening,  learned  what  makes  the  might  of  words, — 
Manhood  to  back  them  constant  as  a  star ; 

His  voice  rammed  home  our  cannon,  edged  our  swords, 
And  sent  our  boarders  shouting ;  shroud  and  spar 

Heard  him  and  stiffened;  the  sails  heard,  and  wooed 

The  winds  with  loftier  mood. 

"In  our  dark  hours  he  manned  our  guns  again ; 

Remanned  ourselves  from  his  own  manhood's  stores ; 
Pride,  honor,  country,  throbbed  through  all  his  strain ; 

And  shall  we  praise  ?    God's  praise  was  his  before ; 
And  on  our  futile  laurels  he  looks  down, 
Himself  our  bravest  crown." 

Whittier  contributed  a  poem  to  this  anniversary 
festival,  in  which  he  emphasized  entirely  Bryant's 
services  in  the  cause  of  freedom.  Holmes,  on  the 
other  hand,  dwelt  more  especially  upon  his  qualities 
as  a  poet,  though  he  touches  in  one  or  two  stanzas 
upon  his  loyalty  to  the  cause : 

"How  can  we  praise  the  verse  whose  music  flows 
With  solemn  cadence  and  majestic  close, 
Pure  as  the  dew  that  filters  through  the  rose? 
How  shall  we  thank  him  that  in  evil  days 
He  faltered  never, — nor  for  blame,  nor  praise, 
Nor  hire,  nor  party,  shamed  his  earlier  lays?" 

Whittier  was  the  only  other  member  of  the  group, 
between  whom  and  Bryant  there  was  any  special  con- 
tact. Lowell  may  not  have  known  of  his  work  in  the 
Post,  an  almost  incredible  fact,  considering  his  in- 
terest in  politics;  but  Whittier  was  in  touch  with  it 
and  him,  and,  what  is  more  to  the  purpose,  probably 
wielded  a  strong  influence  at  the  start  in  turning 


WHITTIKR.      1807-1892 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      255 

Bryant's  face  away  from  party  politics  to  the  larger 
national  issues.  It  was  not  discovered  until  after 
Whittier's  death  that  he  was  the  author  of  a  poem, 
published  in  the  Haverhill  Iris  of  September  29,  1832, 
entitled  "To  a  Poetical  Trio  in  the  City  of  Gotham." 
It  was  an  appeal  to  Bryant  and  two  other  well-known 
poets  of  the  day,  Leggett  and  Lawson,  to  give  up 
their  Jacksonianism,  and  come  out  boldly  for  freedom. 

It  was  not  many  years  before  Whittier  had  the 
delight  of  seeing  two  of  the  trio,  Bryant  and  Leggett, 
working  with  the  unpartisan  fervor  which  delighted 
him. 

Whittier  and  Lowell  were,  of  course,  brought  es- 
pecially close  in  the  early  days  before  the  war,  when 
they  were  working  for  the  cause  of  anti-slavery.  A 
year  before  the  episode  recorded  in  the  last  chapter, 
when  Lowell's  anti-slavery  poem  in  the  Courier  was 
thought  to  be  by  Whittier,  Lowell  had  asked  Whit- 
tier to  contribute  to  a  magazine,  the  Pioneer,  which 
he  was  to  edit.  In  his  letter  to  Whittier,  Lowell  says 
that  any  little  poem  he  may  have  by  him  will  be  ac- 
ceptable. Lowell  cannot  offer  to  pay  Whittier  much 
at  first,  he  explains,  but  trusts  that  the  hope  of  aiding 
a  good  endeavor  will  be  a  sufficient  inducement.  His 
interest  in  Whittier's  political  ambitions  is  also 
shown  in  the  same  letter,  for  he  says:  "I  wish  I  were 
in  your  district  to  vote  for  you  as  a  member  of  Con- 
gress." The  friendliness  toward  his  work  and  toward 
the  man  himself  was  an  abiding  attitude  in  Lowell's 
life.  As  Whittier  said  of  him,  in  relation  to  some 
proposed  change  in  a  stanza  of  a  poem  sent  to  the 
Atlantic,  "If  friend  Lowell,  however,  thinks  the  lines 
not  quite  up  to  the  subject,  or  to  his  estimate  of  my 


256      THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

ability,  he  is  a  true  man  and  a  true  friend,  and  will 
act  accordingly." 

When  Whittier  was  sending  contributions  to  the 
Atlantic,  letters  often  went  with  them  to  the  editor, 
Lowell,  and  sometimes  Lowell  made  friendly  sug- 
gestions in  regard  to  improvements  in  his  verses.  In 
his  "Fable  for  Critics"  Lowell  does  not  hesitate  to 
point  out  Whittier's  faults,  which  grew,  he  declares, 
out  of,— 

"A  fervor  of  mind  which  knows  no  separation 
'Twixt  simple  excitement  and  pure  inspiration." 

But  there  is  more  praise  than  blame  in  all  that  he 
said.  Besides,  many  times  his  pen  was  wielded  in 
prose  to  the  honor  of  Whittier,  whom  he  had  char- 
acterized in  anti-slavery  days  in  the  Pioneer  as  "the 
fiery  Koerner  of  this  spiritual  warfare,  who,  Scaevola- 
like,  has  sacrificed  on  the  altar  of  duty  that  right  hand 
which  might  have  made  him  acknowledged  as  the  most 
passionate  lyrist  of  his  time."  At  another  time,  after 
Whittier  had  split  off  from  the  Ultra  Abolitionists, 
and  joined  the  Liberty  Party,  Lowell's  praise  of  his 
poetry,  in  a  long  review  contributed  to  the  Standard 
of  a  volume  just  published,  made  the  editor  of  that 
paper,  Mr.  Gay,  think  it  incumbent  upon  him  to 
point  out  in  an  editorial  note  the  fact  that  Whittier 
had  been  found  in  a  different  camp  from  that  of  the 
"older  abolitionists,"  and  to  animadvert  on  the  subject. 

We  hear  of  at  least  two  visits  made  by  Lowell  to 
Whittier,  and  probably  there  were  more.  One  of 
these  was  in  July,  1850,  in  company  with  Bayard 
Taylor,  who  writes  in  a  letter  to  a  friend:  "Friday 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      257 

morning  early,  Lowell  and  I  started  for  Amesbury, 
which  we  reached  in  a  terrible  northeaster.  What  a 
capital  time  we  had  with  Whittier,  in  his  nook  of  a 
study,  with  the  rain  pouring  on  the  roof,  and  the 
wind  howling  at  the  door."  The  other,  in  September, 
1868,  Lowell  tells  about  in  one  of  his  letters,  when 
he  drove  with  a  friend  to  Amesbury  and  called  on 
Whittier.  Whittier  piloted  them  to  a  fine  bluff  over 
the  Merrimac,  where  they  had  a  beautiful  view.  Be- 
sides such  visits  as  these  they,  of  course,  met  at  the 
clubs,  though  not  frequently,  for  Whittier  loved  not 
company  over  well.  According  to  Colonel  T.  W. 
Higginson,  when  he  did  go  to  the  club  he  appeared 
simple,  manly,  unbecomingly  shy,  yet  reticent  and 
quiet,  and  with  no  power  for  holding  his  own  in  a  con- 
versation led  by  Lowell  and  Holmes.  Nevertheless, 
the  same  observer  says  he  had  plenty  of  wit  and  keen- 
ness, and  no  one  could  give  a  more  interesting  sum- 
mary of  what  had  happened  in  the  course  of  the  dinner 
than  Whittier. 

All  that  Whittier  was,  in  Lowell's  estimation,  both 
as  poet  and  man,  is  briefly  and  pertinently  summed 
up  in  his  sonnet  to  Whittier,  sent  from  Europe  for 
Whittier's  seventy-fifth  birthday,  and  read  at  the 
presentation  by  the  Society  of  Friends  to  the  Friends' 
School  at  Providence  of  a  portrait  of  Whittier: 

"New  England's  poet,  rich  in  love  as  years, 

Her  hills  and  valleys  praise  thee,  her  swift  brooks 
Dance  in  thy  verse ;  to  her  grave  sylvan  nooks 
Thy  steps  allure  us,  which  the  wood-thrush  hears 
As  maids  their  lovers',  and  no  treason  fears ; 
Through  thee  her  Merrimacs  and  Agiochooks 
And  many  a  name  uncouth  win  gracious  looks, 


258      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Sweetly  familiar  in  both  Englands'  ears : 
Peaceful  by  birthright  as  a  virgin  lake, 

The  lily's  anchorage,  which  no  eyes  behold 
Save  those  of  stars,  yet  for  thy  brother's  sake 

That  lay  in  bonds,  thou  blewest  a  blast  as  bold 
As  that  wherewith  the  heart  of  Roland  brake, 

Far  heard  across  the  New  World  and  the  Old." 


Whittier  and  Longfellow  were  not  closely  asso- 
ciated, though  they  had  a  high  regard  for  each  other, 
more  frequently  expressed  by  Whittier  than  Longfel- 
low. While  Whittier  and  Lowell  were  fierce  in  their 
anti-slavery  enthusiasms,  Longfellow,  who  shrank  tem- 
peramentally from  participation  in  any  sort  of  polit- 
ical controversies,  was  browsing  in  the  lore  of  Euro- 
pean culture  or  delving  into  the  myths  of  American 
Indians.  He  frequently  bemoans  the  fact  that  his 
friends,  especially  when  Sumner  was  of  the  party, 
would  drift  into  political  talk  at  his  dinner  table.  Yet 
all  the  time,  his  sympathy  was  with  the  noble  workers 
in  the  cause.  It  comes  out  over  and  over  again  in  the 
entries  in  his  diary.  At  the  time  of  the  capture  of  a 
fugitive  slave  in  the  streets  of  Boston  and  his  return 
to  his  master  in  New  Orleans,  Longfellow  speaks 
with  regret  of  not  having  been  at  the  monster  meeting 
at  Faneuil  Hall  to  hear  the  speeches  of  Sumner, 
Wendell  Phillips,  and  Howe.  Again,  he  speaks  of 
Sumner's  making  a  Free-soil  speech  in  Cambridge, 
and  exclaims  "Ah,  me!  in  such  an  assembly!  It  was 
like  one  of  Beethoven's  symphonies  played  in  a  saw- 
mill! He  spoke  admirably  well.  But  the  shouts  and 
the  hisses  and  the  vulgar  interruptions  grated  on  my 
ears.  I  was  glad  to  get  away."  And  this  is  what  he 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      259 

has  to  say  of  January  6,  1863:  "A  great  day.  The 
President's  Proclamation  for  Emancipation  of  Slaves 
in  the  rebel  States,  goes  into  effect.  A  beautiful  day, 
full  of  sunshine,  ending  in  a  tranquil,  moonlight  night. 
May  it  be  symbolical  of  the  Emancipation!  There 
was  a  grand  meeting  in  Boston,  at  which  Emerson 
recited  a  poem.  I  was  not  there." 

Perhaps  his  strongest  expression  of  sympathy  with 
the  slave  is  in  a  letter  to  Sumner:  "Your  report  on 
the  rejection  of  colored  testimony  I  read  with  a  kind 
of  agony,  to  think  what  we  had  been  inflicting  upon 
those  whose  despair  is  dumb.  This  dreadful  stone  of 
Slavery!  Whenever  you  lift  it,  what  reptiles  crawl 
out  from  under  it!" 

When  all  this  passive  sympathy  broke  out  in  ex- 
pression in  his  poems  on  slavery,  his  friends  were  joy- 
ful. Sumner  wrote  him  that  by  these  poems  his  name 
was  fastened  to  an  immortal  truth;  Lowell  made  them 
an  opportunity  for  waving  the  anti-slavery  banner  in 
his  Pioneer,  but  Whittier  determined  to  turn  such 
sympathy  at  once  to  some  practical  advantage.  He 
immediately  wrote,  thanking  Longfellow  for  the 
poems,  which  had  been  published  as  a  tract  and  were 
doing  important  service  in  the  liberty  movement,  and 
asked  him  to  allow  his  name  to  be  used  as  a  candidate 
for  Congress  on  the  ticket  of  the  Liberty  Party. 
Longfellow's  answer  to  this  request  states  in  an  un- 
equivocal manner  just  where  he  stood.  After  saying 
he  was  not  qualified  for  the  duties  of  such  an  office, 
and  that  he  did  not  belong  to  the  Liberty  Party,  he 
added  that  he  rejoiced  in  the  progress  of  true  liberty, 
and  in  freedom  from  slavery  of  all  kinds,  but  that  he 
could  not  think  of  entering  the  political  arena.  Par- 


260      THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

tisan  warfare,  he  declared,  was  too  violent  and  too 
vindictive  for  his  taste,  and  he  would  be  but  a  weak 
champion  in  public  debate. 

All  through  his  life  Whittier  frequently  expressed 
admiration  of  Longfellow's  work  in  letters  both  to 
him  and  to  other  friends.  One  instance  of  this  is 
especially  interesting.  It  seems  that  Whittier  had 
intended  to  write  upon  the  subject  of  the  banishment 
of  the  Acadians  from  Nova  Scotia,  but  he  put  it  off 
until  he  found  that  the  subject  had  been  suggested  to 
Hawthorne,  and  had,  in  consequence  of  Hawthorne's 
not  desiring  to  use  it,  been  taken  up  by  Longfellow. 
After  "Evangeline"  appeared,  Whittier  said  he  was 
glad  he  had  been  delayed,  for  Longfellow  was  the  right 
person  to  write  the  poem.  Whittier  was  of  the  opin- 
ion that  if  he  had  attempted  it,  he  would  have  spoiled 
the  artistic  effect  of  the  poem  by  his  indignation  at  the 
treatment  of  the  exiles.  He  wrote  a  very  appreciative 
notice  of  the  poem,  and  received  from  Longfellow  a 
letter  of  grateful  acknowledgment. 

They  seem  to  have  been  in  the  habit  of  praising  each 
other  in  letters  to  their  lady  friends.  For  example, 
Longfellow  writing  to  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps,  says : 
"There  is  something  more  in  education  than  is  set 
down  in  school  books.  Whittier  has  touched  this 
point  very  poetically  in  that  little  lyric  of  his  called 
'In  School  Days.' '  And  Whittier,  writing  to  Annie 
Fields,  says  of  "Morituri  Salutamus":  "How  good 
Longfellow's  poem  is !  A  little  sad,  but  full  of  'sweet- 
ness and  light.' ' 

When  Longfellow  died,  Whittier  felt  it  deeply. 
When  asked  by  Aldrich  to  write  a  poem  for  the  At- 
lantic, he  replied  that  it  seemed  as  if  he  could  never 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      261 

write  again.  "A  feeling  of  unutterable  sorrow  and 
loneliness  oppresses  me."  Though  he  wrote  no  poem 
for  the  Atlantic.,  he  expressed  the  depth  of  his  ad- 
miration and  affection  for  Longfellow  in  a  letter  to 
his  niece:  "Pure,  kindly,  and  courteous,  simple  yet 
scholarly,  he  was  never  otherwise  than  a  gentleman. 
There  is  no  blot  on  the  crystal  purity  of  his  writings." 
And  on  the  fly-leaf  of  a  volume  of  Longfellow's 
poems  he  wrote  the  following  stanzas: 

"Hushed  now  the  sweet  consoling  tongue 
Of  him  whose  lyre  the  Muses  strung; 
His  last  low  swan  song  has  been  sung. 

"His  last !    And  ours,  dear  friend,  is  near ; 
As  clouds  that  rake  the  mountains  here, 
We,  too,  shall  pass  and  disappear. 

"Yet  howsoever  changed  or  tost, 
Not  even  a  wreath  of  mist  is  lost, 
No  atom  can  itself  exhaust. 

"So  shall  the  soul's  superior  force 
Live  on  and  run  its  endless  course 
In  God's  unlimited  universe." 

Longfellow  speaks  of  one  meeting  with  Whittiei 
at  his  publisher's,  and  remarks  that  he  grows  mellower 
and  milder  as  does  his  poetry. 

Between  Whittier  and  Dr.  Holmes  there  seems  to 
have  been  a  special  liking.  The  two  men  must  have 
been  antipodal  in  many  of  their  feelings, — Whittier, 
the  man  of  the  people,  a  simple  farmer,  a  Quaker  op- 
posed on  principle  to  war;  a  democrat,  not  only  in 


262      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

theory  but  in  practice,  with  a  distaste  for  show  and 
public  functions ;  and  Holmes,  the  aristocrat  and  con- 
servative, the  boy  who  delighted  in  military  display, 
the  man  sought  after  as  a  brilliant  star  to  grace  all 
kinds  of  social  functions,  public  and  private.  When 
Whittier  first  met  Holmes  he  declared  that  he  liked 
him  and  that  there  was  rare  humor  in  the  man.  And 
it  was  Whittier  who  started  the  poem,  "The  Cham- 
bered Nautilus,"  on  its  career  of  popularity,  when 
he  said  of  it  that  the  little  poem  was  "booked  for 
immortality."  In  his  letters  to  the  Atlantic,  he  is 
constantly  throwing  out  little  snatches  of  praise  for 
Holmes.  Holmes  seemed  to  take  equal  delight  in 
Whittier's  poems,  many  of  which  he  could  not  read 
(by  his  own  confession)  without  weeping. 

In  a  letter  to  Whittier,  thanking  him  for  his  ap- 
preciation of  the  Andover  poem,  he  retorts,  "To  cover 
my  egotisms,  let  me  say  to  you  unhesitatingly  that 
you  have  written  the  most  beautiful  school-boy  poem 
in  the  English  language.  I  just  this  moment  read  it, 
because  I  was  writing  to  you,  and  before  I  had  got 
through  'In  School  Days'  the  tears  were  rolling  out 
of  my  eyes." 

In  another  letter,  thanking  Whittier  for  a  volume 
of  his  poems,  Holmes  writes:  "My  wife  wanted  me 
to  read  one, — a  special  favorite  of  my  own,  'The 
Witch  of  Wenham,'  but  I  told  her  'No'— I  knew  I 
should  break  down  before  I  got  through  with  it,  for 
it  made  me  tearful  again,  as  it  did  the  first  time  I 
read  it." 

In  the  next  paragraph  of  the  letter  we  perhaps  get 
a  glimpse  not  only  of  the  qualities  of  Whittier,  but 
of  the  genuine  Holmes,  when  his  soul  fluttered  out  of 


LONGFELLOW.      1807-1882 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      263 

his  conservative  shell,  as  it  was  prone  to  do  if  re- 
ligion was  in  question.  Not  only  Whittier's  very 
real  poetic  gift  touched  him,  but  he  could  find  him- 
self thoroughly  in  sympathy  with  a  religion  free 
from  dogma  as  Whittier's  was.  Their  approach  here 
is  typical  of  the  sympathy  many  Quakers  have  felt  in 
Unitarianism,  to  the  extent  even  of  joining  them- 
selves to  that  body  of  religionists: 

"I  was  going  to  say,  I  thank  you,  but  I  would  say 
rather,  I  thank  God  that  He  has  given  you  the 
thoughts  and  feelings  which  sing  themselves  as  nat- 
urally as  the  wood-thrush  sings  his  silver  bell — to  steal 
your  own  exquisitely  descriptive  line.  Who  has 
preached  the  gospel  of  love  to  such  a  mighty  con- 
gregation as  you  have  preached  it  ?  Who  has  done  so 
much  to  sweeten  the  soul  of  Calvinistic  New  England? 
You  have  your  reward  here  in  the  affection  with  which 
all  our  people  who  are  capable  of  loving  anybody  re- 
gard you.  I  trust  you  will  find  a  still  higher,  in  that 
world,  the  harmonies  of  which  find  an  echo  in  so 
many  of  your  songs." 

In  the  light  of  artistic  and  religious  affinities,  the 
mere  accident  of  a  different  mental  attitude  toward 
social  or  political  ideals  becomes  as  nothing.  They 
could  love  each  other,  although  Holmes  once  found 
the  anti-slavery  people  a  queer  lot,  and  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  they  were  on  opposite  sides  upon  the  ques- 
tion of  woman  suffrage. 

Touchingly  Whittier  acknowledges,  a  little  later,  a 
birthday  greeting  from  Holmes: 

"Among  the  many  kind  greetings  which  reach  me 
on  this  anniversary,  thine  has  been  the  most  welcome, 
for  a  word  of  praise  from  thee  is  prized  more  highly 


264      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

than  all."  He  speaks  of  a  feeling  that  the  four 
singers  are  isolated  from  the  rest  of  humanity  in  lonely 
companionship.  He  realizes  that  fame  is  nothing  and 
"that  love  is  the  one  essential  thing,  always  welcome, 
outliving  time  and  change,  and  going  with  us  into  the 
unguessed  possibilities  of  death."  Then  he  speaks 
especially  of  their  literary  life  abreast  of  each  other: 
"We  began  together  in  Buckingham's  Magazine ,  and 
together  we  are  keeping  step  in  the  Atlantic.  Not 
evenly,  indeed,  for  thy  step  is  .lighter  and  freer  than 
mine.  How  many  who  began  with  us  have  fallen  by 
the  way!  The  cypress  shadows  lie  dark  about  us,  but 
I  think  thee  contrive  to  keep  in  the  low  westering  sun- 
shine more  than  I  can." 

When  he  wrote  to  the  Critic  in  celebration  of 
Holmes's  birthday,  the  praise,  though  almost  extrava- 
gant, is  evidently  Whittier's  sincere  conviction,  after 
a  lifetime  of  friendship,  and  intimate  familiarity  with 
Holmes's  work: 

"Poet,  essayist,  novelist,  humorist,  scientist,  ripe 
scholar,  and  wise  philosopher,  if  Dr.  Holmes  does  not 
at  the  present  time  hold  in  popular  estimation  the 
first  place  in  American  literature,  his  rare  versatility 
is  the  cause.  In  view  of  the  inimitable  prose  writer, 
we  forget  the  poet;  in  our  admiration  of  his  melodious 
verse,  we  lose  sight  of  'Elsie  Vernier'  and  'The  Auto- 
crat of  the  Breakfast  Table.'  We  laugh  over  his  wit 
and  humor,  until,  to  use  his  own  words, — 

'We  suspect  the  azure  blossom  that  unfolds  upon  a  shoot, 
As  if  Wisdom's  old  potato  could  not  flourish  at  its  root' ; 

and  perhaps  the  next  page  melts  us  into  tears  by  a 
pathos  only  equaled  by  that  of  Sterne's  sick  Lieuten- 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      265 

ant.  He  is  Montaigne  and  Bacon  under  one  hat. 
.  .  .  To  those  who  have  enjoyed  the  privilege  of 
his  intimate  acquaintance,  the  man  himself  is  more 
than  the  author.  His  genial  nature,  entire  freedom 
from  jealousy  or  envy,  quick  tenderness,  large  char- 
ity, hatred  of  sham,  pretense,  and  unreality,  and  his 
reverent  sense  of  the  eternal  and  permanent,  have  se- 
cured for  him  something  more  and  dearer  than  liter- 
ary renown — the  love  of  all  who  know  him." 

These  two  great  friends  and  admirers  of  each  other, 
found  themselves  alone  together  at  the  last.  After 
Lowell's  death  they  seemed  to  have  almost  a  feverish 
anxiety  to  see  each  other.  Holmes  wrote,  "I  am 
longing  to  see  you,  and  if  you  are  coming  to  Danvers, 
you  must  expect  me  to  drive  over  for  an  hour's  talk 
with  you.  As  I  have  often  said,  we,  that  is,  you  and 
I,  now  are  no  longer  on  a  raft,  but  we  are  on  a  spar." 
Whittier  replied,  "I  am  most  happy  to  know  that  I 
may  expect  a  visit  from  thee  as  soon  as  the  present 
wet  weather  permits.  I  need  not  tell  thee  how  glad 
I  shall  be  to  see  thee  before  I  let  go  that  'spar'  and 
leave  it  to  thee  alone."  In  another  letter  Whittier 
calls  attention  to  the  fact  that  in  Griswold's  "Poets 
and  Poetry  of  America,"  printed  1842,  he  finds  the 
names  of  John  Greenleaf  Whittier  and  Oliver  Wen- 
dell Holmes  next  each  other  "in  their  due  order  as 
they  should  be."  In  the  following  year  Whittier 
died,  a  few  weeks  after  writing  his  last  poem,  one 
for  Holmes's  birthday — not  a  very  good  poem,  but 
infinitely  pathetic.  Holmes  wrote  a  poem  in  memory 
of  Whittier's  death,  breathing  the  same  spirit  of  love 
and  appreciation  which  we  have  seen  reflected  in  his 
letters. 


266      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

We  think  of  Lowell  and  Holmes  associated  to- 
gether, especially  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly — one  as  the 
first  editor,  and  the  other  as  the  contributor  who  did 
the  most  to  bring  about  the  initial  success  of  that 
magazine.  Its  inauguration  at  a  dinner  has  already 
been  spoken  of.  It  was  started  at  a  propitious  time, 
when  society,  which  had  hooted  at  the  abolitionists, 
as  it  is  apt  to  hoot  at  everybody  who  breaks  through 
the  peaceful  self-satisfaction  of  its  unconscious  medi- 
sevalism,  was  waking  up  to  the  fact  that  slavery, 
after  all,  was  not  exactly  the  sort  of  thing  it  wanted 
to  countenance.  As  society  and  its  hangers-on  make 
up  a  large  proportion  of  the  population  of  every  city, 
it  is  well-nigh  impossible  for  a  Garrison,  or  even  a 
Phillips,  to  bring  success  to  a  cause  unless  the  "broad- 
cloth" element  does  have  such  an  awakening.  The 
new  magazine  was  started  for  the  express  purpose  of 
enlisting  upon  the  side  of  the  righteous  cause  society 
and  public  opinion.  The  group  of  men  who  would 
stand  and  had  stood  for  the  moral  rectitude  of  the  na- 
tion were  also  those  whom  the  public  honored  for  their 
genius.  The  combination  was  irresistible,  the  maga- 
zine made  an  immediate  impression.  Awakened  so- 
cial opinion  was  ready  to  support  it,  and  applauded 
this  fine  combination  of  genius  with  moral  purpose. 
The  geniuses,  in  jovial  conclave,  decided  that  Lowell 
was  the  man  to  be  editor-in-chief,  to  which  he  replied : 
"I  will  take  the  place,  as  you  all  seem  to  think  I 
should,  but,  if  success  is  achieved,  we  shall  owe  it 
mainly  to  the  doctor." 

Underwood,  in  his  delightful  reminiscences  of 
Lowell,  relates  that  the  new  editor-in-chief  then 
turned  to  him  and  said,  in  an  aside:  "You  see,  the 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      267 

doctor  is  like  a  bright  mountain  stream  that  has  been 
dammed  up  among  the  hills,  and  is  waiting  for  an  out- 
let into  the  Atlantic."  (The  name  was  suggested  by 
Holmes.)  "You  will  find  he  has  a  wonderful  store  of 
thoughts,  serious,  comic,  pathetic,  and  poetic,  of  com- 
parisons, figures  and  illustrations.  I  have  seen  noth- 
ing of  his  preparation,  but  I  imagine  he  is  ready.  It 
will  be  something  wholly  new,  and  his  reputation  as 
a  prose  writer  will  date  from  this  magazine." 

Holmes  never  forgot  this.  He  spoke  of  it  at  the 
Atlantic  breakfast  in  his  own  honor,  twenty-two 
years  later,  magnanimously  declaring  that  if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  confident  words  of  Lowell  he  might 
not  have  taken  up  his  pen  in  serious  earnest,  and  so 
have  missed  the  chance  of  saying  some  things  he  was 
glad  to  have  said,  and  which  others  had  been  willing 
to  listen  to. 

Again,  many  years  after,  upon  the  death  of  Lowell, 
Holmes  wrote  to  Charles  Eliot  Norton,  of  the  stimu- 
lation he  had  received  from  Lowell  at  this  time,  who 
urged  upon  him  the  use  of  certain  gifts,  his  by  na- 
ture, for  the  use  of  the  public.  Although  Lowell  was 
ten  years  his  junior,  he  recognized  the  younger  man's 
literary  experience  and  wisdom,  and  from  the  impulse 
given  him  by  Lowell's  belief  in  him,  he  dated  his  best 
efforts  and  his  nearest  approach  to  success  in  liter- 
ary pursuits. 

From  the  letters  which  passed  between  these  two, 
many  a  pleasant  picture  of  their  friendly  relations 
may  be  collected.  They  did  not  so  uniformly  feed 
each  other  with  honey  and  sugar  as  did  Whittier  and 
Holmes,  perhaps  because  in  the  one  case  the  sym- 
pathy was  temperamental,  in  the  other,  intellectual. 


268      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Although  there  were  intellectual  differences  between 
Lowell  and  Holmes,  they  were  sufficiently  on  the  same 
plane  mentally  to  enjoy  intellectual  sword  play. 
Lowell  might  dare  to  laugh  at  the  "old  square-toed 
heroics"  of  Holmes's  verse,  and  Holmes  might  retort 
"upon  the  rattlety-bang  sort  of  verse  in  which  Lowell 
sometimes  indulged."  He  found  a  good  deal  of  this 
sort  of  verse  in  "The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,"  his 
praise  of  which  was  considerably  shadowed  with 
blame.  What  propriety,  he  wants  to  know,  is  there  in 
introducing  the  Baltimore  oriole  in  the  tableau  of  that 
old  feudal  castle?  And  furthermore,  "There  are  ob- 
jective instances,  as  the  Rev.  Homer  Wilbur's  critic 
would  say,  of  a  want  of  unity,  which  shows  itself  'sub- 
jectively' in  various  other  passages,  where  the  old 
story,  which  should  have  been  brocaded  throughout 
with  old-world  and  old-time  imagery,  is  overlaid  with 
fine  new  philanthropizing  and  philosophizing  gen- 
eralities." The  critical  doctor  has  the  grace  to  ad- 
mire the  description  of  the  brook,  the  "most  ingenious 
and  exquisitely  finished  piece  of  pen  fancy-work  I 
have  seen  for  a  long  time,"  but  why  did  he  not  equally 
object  to  Beaver  Brook,  which  was  almost  as  near 
Lowell's  home  as  the  hang-bird  on  the  elm-tree  bough  ? 
Lowell  tells,  himself,  of  the  scene  that  inspired  his 
description  of  the  brook,  in  a  letter  to  his  friend,  Mr. 
Briggs.  He  was  walking  home  in  the  moonlight  on 
a  frosty  night,  when  the  stillness  of  the  fields  was 
broken  only  by  the  "tinkle  of  a  little  brook  which  runs 
too  swiftly  for  Frost  to  catch  it." 

Dr.   Holmes's  criticisms   are   eminently  "square 
toed"  no  doubt,  yet,  who  would  like  to  have  the  hang- 
bird  and  the  dandelion  banished  from  Sir  Launfal's 


\ 


BEAVER  BROOK 


THE  POETS'  XEW  EXGLAXD      269 

Vision?  What  is  the  use  of  poetry  if  it  must  be  as 
literal  as  prose  \  Is  it  not  a  fairyland  wherein  the 
poet-magician  surely  has  a  right  to  wave  his  wand 
if  he  will,  and  make  old-world  trees  animate  with 
Baltimore  orioles,  and  old-world  fields  emblazoned 
with  dandelions? 

If  Holmes  occasionally  found  rattlety-bang  lines 
in  Lowell,  he  quite  blotted  out  the  effect  of  his  ob- 
jections in  many  another  instance,  such  as  the  time, 
at  the  Atlantic  breakfast,  when  he  was  in  so  great  a 
state  of  excitement  because  a  newspaper  misprinted  a 
word  in  a  speech  praising  Lowell,  making  him  speak 
of  Lowell's  "notable"  instead  of  "noble  poems,"  that 
he  immediately  wrote  to  the  absent  Lowell,  saying: 
"The  wretches  printed  'noble,'  notable!  The  idea  of 
my  applying  that  lukewarm  word  to  the  grand  poems 
which  so  largely  merit  the  adjective  I  gave  them.  I 
was  so  vexed  that  if  I  had  not  slept  off  my  breakfast 
I  should  have  had  an  indigestion." 

A  much  more  serious  onslaught  than  this  was  made 
by  Lowell  upon  Holmes  when  he  took  him  to  task 
because  he  was  not  a  more  serious  and  ardent  re- 
former. We  know  only  from  a  letter  of  the  doctor's 
in  defense  of  himself,  what  the  grounds  of  Lowell's 
criticisms  were.  Lowell  evidently  thought  that 
Holmes  had  too  great  a  respect  for  war  as  a  means 
of  settling  national  or  international  difficulties,  that 
he  had  shown  contempt  for  the  abolitionists,  that  he 
had  failed  to  show  himself  a  believer  in  temperance, 
that  he  was  not  as  sympathetic  about  the  poor  as  he 
ought  to  be,  and  that  he  did  not  help  along  reform 
in  general.  This  is  a  formidable  array  of  shortcom- 
ings to  be  accused  of,  but  the  gentle  doctor  replied 


270      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

with  so  much  kindliness  and  dignity,  that  no  doubt 
Lowell  was  convinced  he  was  not  so  bad  as  he  had 
been  painted,  if  he  were  not  quite  so  strenuous  in 
upholding  the  Lowellian  ideals  as  he  might  be.  About 
war,  Holmes  felt  that  it  had  been  a  powerful  stimu- 
lant in  bringing  out  the  strength  of  the  human  intel- 
lect, and  although  he  confessed  to  a  growing  disgust 
to  this  mode  of  settling  national  quarrels,  he  could 
not  shut  his  eyes  to  the  beauty  of  the  heroism  and 
self-devotion  of  which  the  battle-field  had  often  been 
the  occasion.  This  was  in  1846.  Lowell  was  many 
years  later  to  learn,  in  agony  of  spirit,  the  meaning  of 
the  beauty  of  heroism. 

On  the  subject  of  slavery,  he  said  that  he  had  to 
plead  guilty  to  a  thoughtless  line  in  his  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  poem,  meant  for  a  harmless  jest,  but  that  he 
would  not  write  such  a  verse  now,  for  reasons  we 
may  see,  which  might  seem  rather  weak  to  Lowell. 
These  were  "partly  because  this  party  had  grown  more 
powerful,  perhaps,"  but  partly  also  because  he  now 
knew  it  would  give  offense  to  many  good  persons 
whose  motives  and  many  of  whose  principles  he  held 
in  profound  respect. 

He  also  pleaded  guilty  to  having  written  some 
poems  of  a  convivial  turn,  but  offset  that  by  calling 
attention  to  one  written  for  a  temperance  celebration 
in  New  York,  and  also  by  stating  the  fact  that  he 
had  taken  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  less  rent  for  a 
store  on  Long  Wharf  rather  than  let  it  for  a  grocery, 
because  he  knew  rum  would  be  sold  from  it.  He  con- 
tinues that  he  believes  in  all  practical  measures  for 
helping  the  poor  and  that  he  is  by  no  means  the  thor- 
oughgoing conservative  Lowell  seems  to  think  him. 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      271 

Lowell  was  evidently  especially  troubled  over  the 
poem  Holmes  had  read  before  the  Mercantile  Li- 
brary Association,  "The  Rhymed  Lesson,"  because  he 
had  not  made  it  an  occasion  for  an  anti-slavery 
address. 

There  is  much  sound  sense  in  several  of  the  points 
Holmes  makes  here  in  his  defense.  For  one  thing, 
so  much  vituperative  eloquence  was  so  constantly  be- 
ing employed  on  this  subject,  that  nothing  was  so 
flat  and  unprofitable  as  weakly  flavored  verses  relat- 
ing to  it.  Therefore,  he  confined  himself  to  things 
that  interested  him  more,  giving  many  moral  lessons 
in  the  course  of  the  poem,  among  others,  the  duties 
of  religious  charity.  The  audience  being  largely  of 
young  people,  the  poet  interspersed  his  moral  lessons 
with  gay  sallies,  in  each  of  which  was  hidden  some 
pearl  of  a  moral.  The  result  is  not  especially  happy, 
from  an  artistic  point  of  view,  and  at  the  time  evi- 
dently missed  fire,  from  a  moral  point  of  view  as  well, 
since  Holmes  declares  that  one  set  of  critics  pro- 
scribed him  for  being  serious  and  another  for  being 
gay.  He  assured  Lowell,  however,  that  he  listened 
to  his  suggestions  with  respect,  that  he  meant  to  re- 
flect upon  them,  and  hoped  to  gain  something  from 
them.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  Lowell's  criticisms 
helped  to  broaden  his  perceptions  of  the  good  work 
others  were  doing,  though  it  never  led  him  to  take  an 
active  part  in  that  work. 

There  is  no  more  attractive  picture  than  that  of 
Holmes  constantly  writing  letters  to  Lowell  when  he 
was  ambassador  to  England,  and  as  constantly  assur- 
ing him  he  need  not  answer  if  he  is  too  much  over- 
whelmed with  affairs.  His  unselfish  interest  and  ad- 


272      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

miration,  his  evident  longing  to  hear  at  first  hand  of 
his  friend's  doings  abroad,  and  his  determination  that 
he  will  not  ask  for  a  letter,  show  Holmes  in  a  very 
lovable  light. 

In  another  letter  we  have  an  intimation  that  these 
two  sometimes  enjoyed  cattle  shows  together.  It  is 
a  refusal  on  the  part  of  Holmes  to  accept  Lowell's 
invitation  to  one;  but  Holmes's  regret,  together  with 
his  evident  familiarity  with  and  remembered  enjoy- 
ment of  such  shows,  leads  one  to  hope  that  they  may 
have  been  to  many  in  company  with  each  other,  and 
that  Lowell  shared  Holmes's  delight  in  looking  at 
prize  pumpkins  and  squashes,  or  at  the  "sampler 
worked  by  a  little  girl  aged  five  years  and  three 
months,  and  the  patchwork  quilt  wrought  by  the  old 
lady  of  eighty-seven  years,  four  months  and  six  days." 

Some  years  later  we  have  a  chance  to  take  a  peep 
at  Dr.  Holmes  seated  in  his  study.  Conspicuous 
on  the  table  is  Underwood's  Memoir  of  Lowell, 
wherein  he  is,  as  the  doctor  says,  "embalmed,  living, 
in  fragrant  adjectives  as  sweet  as  the  spices  that  were 
wrapped  up  with  the  mummy  of  the  grandest  of  the 
Pharaohs."  On  the  wall  is  a  large  painting  of  Lowell, 
the  effect  of  which  is  "very  Titian-like."  There  is 
also  a  group  in  which  both  Lowell  and  Holmes  ap- 
pear. The  atmosphere  is  so  pervaded  by  Lowell  that 
no  wonder  Holmes,  as  he  sits  there,  wonders  why  he 
should  be  writing  to  Lowell  as  if  he  were  at  a  distance. 

After  the  record  of  these  later  years  of  devotion  to 
Lowell  which  Holmes  showed,  it  is  somewhat  pathetic 
to  read  in  his  letter  to  Charles  Eliot  Norton,  at 
Lowell's  death,  the  admission,  "I  could  claim  no  such 
intimacy  as  yours  with  James,  and  yet  I  feel  his  loss 


HOLMES.     1809-1894 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      273 

very  deeply.  He  always  showed  a  very  kindly  feeling 
towards  me,  and  I  owe  to  him  more  than  to  almost 
any  other  friend.  He  early  tried  to  interest  me  in 
some  of  those  larger  movements  in  which  he  was  him- 
self active.  I  recognized  the  generous  aim  of  his  ef- 
fort, and  received  his  communication  not  ungraciously. 
But  the  little  fruit  on  my  poorly  built  espalier  was 
very  slow  in  ripening,  and  after  that  first  attempt  of 
his  he  left  me  for  a  long  time  to  ripen  as  I  might." 

There  seems  to  have  been  no  especial  intimacy  be- 
tween Holmes  and  Longfellow,  but  from  the  remarks 
which  Holmes  lets  fall  about  him  in  his  letters  to 
various  people  we  learn  that  Holmes  found  him  a 
most  agreeable  companion.  Of  his  first  meeting  with 
Longfellow,  in  1832,  he  wrote :  "I  have  met  Professor 
Longfellow  two  or  three  times  lately,  and  a  very  nice 
sort  of  a  body  he  seems  to  be."  The  elements  of  his 
niceness  come  out  in  subsequent  references  to  him. 
By  piecing  these  together,  we  obtain  a  very  complete 
portrait  of  the  man  as  he  appeared  to  Holmes,  and  a 
more  lovable  person  it  would  be  hard  to  imagine— 
the  man  luminous  with  gentle  graces,  whose  graceful 
and  lovely  nature  can  hardly  find  expression  in  any 
form  without  giving  pleasure  to  others,  in  whose  so- 
ciety he  found  a  singular  charm — "a  soft  voice,  a 
sweet  and  cheerful  temper,  a  receptive  rather  than  an 
aggressive  intelligence,  the  agreeable  flavor  of  scholar- 
ship without  any  pedantic  ways,  and  a  perceptible 
souppon  of  humor,  not  enough  to  startle  or  surprise 
or  keep  you  under  the  strain  of  over-stimulation, 
which  I  am  apt  to  feel  with  very  witty  people."  Fur- 
thermore, Longfellow  was  so  modest  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  get  him  to  speak  in  public.  Even  at  the 


274      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Saturday  Club,  he  did  not  throw  off  his  modest  de- 
meanor, though  in  his  gentle,  soothing  way  he  said 
many  excellent  things. 

Lowell  is  the  only  one  of  the  group  with  whom 
Longfellow  had  a  special  intimacy,  a  natural  result 
of  their  living  so  near  together,  and  of  their  relations 
at  Harvard.  Lowell  was  a  sophomore  in  1836,  when 
Longfellow  became  Smith  Professor  at  Harvard,  and 
was  really  the  leader  of  a  little  literary  renaissance  for 
New  England.  As  well  as  inspiring  a  love  for  con- 
tinental literature  in  the  students,  he  was  a  very  com- 
panionable professor.  He  walked  and  talked  with 
the  students,  or  even  smoked  and  played  whist.  It 
does  not  appear,  however,  that  Longfellow  and 
Lowell  became  at  all  intimate  at  this  time,  though 
an  incident  happened,  which  Lowell  remembered 
thirty  years  later,  as  the  beginning  of  an  intercourse 
which  ripened  into  a  friendship,  never  marred  by  a 
single  jar.  The  incident  was  Longfellow's  acknowl- 
edgment of  Lowell's  class  poem  in  a  note,  as  the 
latter  declared,  much  more  friendly  than  it  deserved. 
Probably  Longfellow's  poems  on  slavery  was  a  means 
later  on  of  drawing  them  together.  At  any  rate, 
Lowell  not  only  spoke  of  them  with  enthusiasm  in  the 
Pioneer ,,  but  he  defended  Longfellow  against  the  at- 
tacks of  the  anti-slavery  journals,  when  a  Philadel- 
phia publishing  house,  Carey  &  Hart,  brought  out  a 
handsomely  illustrated  volume  of  Longfellow's  poet- 
ical works  with  the  poems  on  slavery  left  out.  Of 
course,  it  was  regarded  as  an  act  of  cowardliness  on 
Longfellow's  part,  but  Lowell  told  Mr.  Gay,  of  the 
Standard,,  who  had  been  especially  bitter,  that  he  be- 
lieved Longfellow  had  left  them  out  because  he  re- 


THE  POETS*  NEW  ENGLAND      275 

garded  them  of  inferior  quality.  This  looks  a  little 
like  special  pleading,  and  is  a  straw  to  tell  how  loyal 
a  friend  Lowell  was  getting  to  be  of  Longfellow, 
for  that  poet  indicates  no  such  cogent  reason  for 
leaving  them  out.  In  fact,  all  he  does  is  to  note  the 
fact  that  he  has  been  attacked,  and  that  "They  are 
rather  savage."  His  biographer  adds,  in  a  note,  that 
they  were  omitted,  perhaps,  by  a  too  good-natured 
concession  to  the  wish  of  the  publishers.  As  a  cheap 
edition  of  the  poems  was  issued  by  Harper's  about  the 
same  time,  in  which  these  poems  were  included,  the 
savagery  of  the  anti-slavery  journals  was  rather  un- 
called for. 

From  this  time  on,  the  entries  in  Longfellow's 
diary  telling  of  meetings  with  Lowell  are  frequent. 
He  meets  him  casually  on  his  walks  abroad.  Lowell 
drops  in  to  dinner  with  Longfellow,  or  Longfellow 
climbs  to  Lowell's  "celestial  study,  with  its  pleasant 
prospect  through  the  small  square  windows,  and  its 
ceiling  so  low  you  can  touch  it  with  your  hand."  They 
discourse  of  anti-slavery  matters,  about  which  Lowell 
is  very  ardent,  or  they  read  each  other's  poems  with 
much  more  of  admiration  than  criticism.  Later  on 
Longfellow  goes  to  Lowell's  lectures  on  poetry,  soon 
after  which  Longfellow  resigns  his  professorship  and 
Lowell  becomes  Smith  Professor  of  Literature  at 
Harvard.  About  this  Longfellow  writes  to  his  friend 
Freiligrath,  "The  Professorship  has  been  disposed 
of  to  Lowell,  the  poet,  a  great  friend  of  mine,  who 
astonished  the  town  last  winter  with  a  course  of  lec- 
tures on  poetry.  Whereupon  the  college  immediately 
laid  hold  of  him  and  made  him  my  successor."  Two 
years  before  this  the  two  poets  were  drawn  more 


276      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

closely  together  on  account  of  the  incident  of  Mrs. 
Lowell's  death  and  the  birth  of  Longfellow's  younger 
daughter,  upon  the  same  day,  which  Longfellow  me- 
morialized in  one  of  his  most  exquisite  poems,  "The 
Two  Angels,"  which  opens  with  this  beautiful  de- 
scription of  the  angel  of  death  and  the  angel  of  life : 

"Two  angels,  one  of  Life,  and  one  of  Death, 

Passed  o'er  our  village  as  the  morning  broke; 
The  dawn  was  on  their  faces,  and  beneath 

The  sombre  houses  hearsed  with  plumes  of  smoke* 

"Their  attitude  and  aspect  were  the  same, 

Alike  their  features  and  their  robes  of  white; 

But  one  was  crowned  with  amaranth,  as  with  flame, 

And  one  with  asphodels,  like  flakes  of  light." 

When  Lowell  goes  abroad  soon  after,  Longfellow 
drives  into  town  with  him  to  see  him  off.  If  he  wrote 
to  Longfellow  during  this  absence,  the  letters  have 
not  been  published.  He  does,  however,  send  his  love 
in  a  letter  to  Norton,  with  a  message  to  the  effect  that 
to  know  Longfellow  is  to  be  somebody  over  there.  As 
the  author  of  various  works  he  was  nothing  in  par- 
ticular, but  as  Longfellow's  neighbor — it  was  as  good 
as  knowing  a  lord.  In  any  case,  Longfellow  was 
just  as  glad  to  see  him  upon  his  return,  and  asked 
him  at  once  to  come  down  on  a  visit  to  Nahant. 

A  few  other  gracious  incidents  of  their  intimacy 
shine  out  through  the  peaceful  routine  of  every-day 
life.  When  Lowell  was  minister  to  Spain  he  had  the 
pleasure  of  writing  to  Longfellow  of  his  election  to 
la  Real  Academia  Espaniola,  and  when  ambassador 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      277 

to  England,  he  took  part  in  the  ceremonies  attending 
the  unveiling  of  the  bust  of  Longfellow  in  Westmin- 
ster Abbey. 

Perhaps  the  most  attractive  of  the  relations  in  which 
we  see  these  two  poets  is  in  the  Dante  Club,  which  was 
formed  for  the  purpose  of  reading  and  criticising  the 
proof-sheets  of  Longfellow's  translation  of  Dante. 
The  nucleus  of  the  club  included  Norton,  as  well  as 
the  two  poets,  and  occasionally  other  students  dropped 
into  the  symposiums.  They  met  in  Longfellow's 
study,  and,  as  Mr.  Norton  tells,  they  paused  "over 
every  doubtful  passage,  discussed  the  various  read- 
ings, considered  the  true  meaning  of  obscure  words 
and  phrases,  sought  for  the  most  exact  equivalent  of 
Dante's  expression,  objected,  criticised,  praised,  with 
a  freedom  that  was  made  perfect  by  Mr.  Longfellow's 
absolute  sweetness,  simplicity,  and  modesty,  and  by 
the  entire  confidence  that  existed  between  us.  ... 
They  were  delightful  evenings;  there  could  be  no 
pleasanter  occupation;  the  spirits  of  poetry,  of  learn- 
ing, of  friendship,  were  with  us."  These  delightful 
hours  of  study  ended  at  ten  o'clock  with  a  supper,  at 
which  one  or  two  guests  were  often  present. 

Among  the  many  appreciative  things  said  by 
Lowell  of  Longfellow's  verse,  which  he  seemed  truly 
to  love,  as  if  it  were  an  emanation  from  the  gentle 
and  scholarly  personality  of  the  poet,  is  his  criticism 
of  the  "Wayside  Inn":  "The  introduction  is  master- 
ly— so  simple,  clear  and  strong.  Let  'em  put  in  all 
their  ifs  and  buts;  I  don't  wonder  the  public  are 
hungrier  and  thirstier  for  his  verse  than  for  that  of 
all  the  rest  of  us  put  together." 

Where  has  Emerson  been  during  this  sketch  of 


278      THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

poetic  affinities?  Lost  in  sunlight,  like  the  planet 
Mercury,  yet  an  ever-present  influence.  Lowell,  be- 
cause of  his  versatility,  came  more  closely  into  touch 
with  every  member  of  the  group  than  most  of  them 
came  into  touch  with  each  other.  His  moral  fervor 
brought  him  into  the  same  field  of  interest  as  Whit- 
tier,  his  intellectual  sprightliness  endeared  him  to 
Holmes,  his  scholarship  and  love  of  literature  for  its 
own  sake  were  the  bonds  of  union  between  him  and 
Longfellow,  while  his  profound  reaches  of  thought 
made  him,  perhaps,  more  comprehending  of  Emerson's 
philosophy  than  the  others. 

Emerson,  on  the  other  hand,  seems  to  have  been 
equally  the  friend  of  all  and  yet  equally  aloof  from 
all.  A  curious  indication  of  the  proof  of  this  comes 
out  when  we  realize  that  in  their  combined  poetical 
works  no  poem  appears  which  celebrates  any  birthday 
festival  or  other  function  in  his  honor,  and  among  his 
poems  are  none  to  celebrate  theirs.  Lowell  tells  of 
Emerson  having  sent  some  verses  once  to  him  in  a 
letter  for  his  birthday,  but  he  lost  the  letter.  Truly, 
so  far  as  the  public  is  concerned,  not  with  "ribbons" 
did  these  "celebrate  their  loves."  Yet  he  was  one  of 
the  most  constant  attendants  at  the  Saturday  Club 
dinners,  and  if  he  did  not  write  poems  to  his  friends 
he  often  attended  the  festal  occasions  in  their  honor, 
and  sometimes  made  speeches  or,  as  in  the  case  of 
Whittier,  read  that  poet's  "Ichabod."  There  is  no 
doubt  he  came  and  went  freely  among  them.  Long- 
fellow frequently  records  that  Emerson  dined  with 
him,  sometimes  in  Cambridge,  sometimes  at  Nahant. 
He  meets  him,  too,  at  little  afternoon  teas  at  the 
Howes',  yet  he  seems  always  to  have  been  the  bright 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      279 

particular  star,  too  etherial  for  ordinary  clay  to  ap- 
proach very  closely.  Some  one  records  that  no  one 
would  ever  dream  of  giving  Emerson  a  friendly  slap 
on  the  shoulder.  But  we  may  imagine  him  moving 
round  in  his  sunlit  orbit,  and  coming  nearer  some- 
times to  one,  sometimes  to  another  of  his  colleagues. 
The  slavery  agitation  brought  Whittier  and  Emerson 
into  sympathy,  as  it  had  Lowell  and  Whittier. 
Though  Emerson  had  in  his  inmost  soul  a  philosoph- 
ical attitude  toward  the  problem,  he  did  his  duty  as 
far  as  in  him  lay,  and  we  find  him,  in  1854,  inviting 
Whittier  to  a  meeting  in  Boston  for  the  purpose  of 
considering  the  political  situation  and  devising  some 
plan  of  bringing  together  the  men  of  all  parties  who 
would  work  together  on  the  slavery  issue.  Their  love 
and  knowledge  of  nature  must  also  have  been  a  bond 
of  sympathy  between  them,  but  Whittier  evidently  felt 
his  limitations  in  comparison  with  Emerson  when  it 
came  to  the  point  of  interpreting  nature.  All  of  this 
is  evident  in  a  letter  of  Whittier's  to  Emerson,  where- 
in, after  describing  how  royally  he  has  been  living 
amid  the  autumnal  opulence  of  nature,  he  exclaims: 
"Oh,  that  I  could  put  into  words  the  hymn  of  grati- 
tude and  unspeakable  love  which  at  such  a  season  is 
sung  in  my  heart.  I  wish  thee  could  have  been 
with  us  the  other  day  on  the  Merrimac.  We  wanted 
an  interpreter  of  the  mystery  of  the  glory  about 


us." 


In  response  to  such  genuine  feeling  as  this  Emer- 
son could  evidently  not  help  but  warm  up  sometimes, 
as  when  he  begs  Whittier  to  come  to  Concord  and 
pay  him  a  visit.  As  an  inducement  he  prays  him  to 
come  on  Friday,  and  "we  will  carry  you  down  to  the 


280      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Saturday  Club,"  which  he  complains  Whittier  does 
not  honor  as  often  as  he  might. 

Emerson  is  reticent  about  praising  Whittier's  po- 
etry, though  he  liked  some  of  it;  but  Whittier  said  he 
regarded  Emerson  as  foremost  in  rank  among  Amer- 
ican poets  and  that  he  had  written  better  things  than 
any  of  them.  Whittier's  one  grief  in  regard  to  Em- 
erson was  his  uncertainty  upon  the  question  of  im- 
mortality. Emerson  would  not  even  give  Whittier 
the  satisfaction  of  discussing  the  subject.  He  had 
always  avoided  it,  until  shortly  before  he  died,  he 
asked  Whittier  to  come  to  Concord  and  see  him,  and 
they  would  let  their  buckets  down  deep  into  the  well 
and  see  what  they  could  bring  up, — but  they  were 
never  to  see  each  other  again. 

About  Emerson's  poetic  faculty  Longfellow  was 
always  the  most  enthusiastic.  From  the  first,  he  in- 
sisted that  he  was  more  of  a  poet  than  a  philosopher. 
His  diary  is  full  of  outbursts  of  appreciation  over  the 
poetry  in  Emerson's  lectures  and  addresses;  for  ex- 
ample, he  says  in  one  place:  "He  mistakes  his  power 
somewhat,  and  at  times  speaks  in  oracles  darkly.  He 
is  vastly  more  of  a  poet  than  a  philosopher."  Again, 
"He  is  one  of  the  finest  lecturers  I  ever  heard,  with 
magnificent  passages  of  true  prose  poetry.  But  it  is 
all  dreamery  after  all."  He  persists  in  this  attitude, 
and  when  his  essays  appeared  he  notes  that  they  are 
"full  of  sublime  prose  poetry,  magnificent  absurdities, 
and  simple  truths.  It  is  a  striking  book;  but  it  is  im- 
possible to  see  any  connection  in  the  ideas." 

He  was  delighted  with  Emerson's  volume  of  poems, 
at  once  recognizing  their  rare  qualities.  He  and  his 
wife  sat  up  until  late  at  night  reading  this  volume, 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      281 

where  they  found,  through  the  golden  mist  and  sub- 
limation of  fancy,  bright  veins  of  purest  poetry. 

Holmes  was  no  more  in  sympathy  with  the  Emer- 
sonian philosophy  than  Longfellow  was,  although  he 
came  to  have  a  pretty  thorough  intellectual  compre- 
hension of  it,  because  of  his  conscientious  study  when 
he  was  preparing  the  life  of  Emerson.  It  has  always 
been  a  cause  for  wonderment  that  Holmes,  of  all  men, 
should  have  been  chosen  to  write  the  life  of  Emerson, 
for  they  were  in  every  way  so  different,  it  could  hardly 
be  expected  that  Holmes  would  penetrate  to  the  true 
meanings  of  Emerson's  life  or  thought.  Emerson,  the 
lover  of  the  ideal  and  the  abstract ;  Holmes,  of  things 
concrete  and  actual.  "It  was  interesting  to  see  two 
men,"  writes  Holmes's  biographer,  "bred  from  like 
stock,  belonging  in  the  same  generation,  living  amid 
the  same  surroundings,  both  engaged  in  knocking  off 
the  fetters  of  old  thought  and  belief,  yet  doing  their 
work  along  lines  so  widely  apart,  in  methods  so  ut- 
terly diverse,  reaching  such  different  kinds  of  men 
through  such  different  influences,  and  never  moving 
even  tentatively  towards  any  alliance  in  effort." 

After  he  had  finished  the  life,  Holmes  wrote  of  the 
fact  that  for  many  months  he  had  been  living  in  daily 
relations  of  intimacy  with  one  who  seems  nearer  to 
me  since  he  has  left  us  than  while  he  was  here  in  living 
form  and  feature.  Imaginative  power  was  a  ground, 
however,  upon  which  these  two  poets  might  meet. 
Holmes  may  not,  as  Judge  Hoar  said,  have  gotten 
hold  of  all  there  was  in  Emerson,  any  more  than 
Emerson  had  understood  all  there  was  in  Holmes,  but 
he  did  have  a  recognition  of  the  fact  that  Emerson, 
if  not  a  great  poet,  fell  very  little  short  of  it.  And 


282      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

so  it  is  that  the  chapter  in  the  "Life  of  Emerson,"  on 
his  poems,  is  the  most  valuable.  Of  course  he  carps  a 
little,  finds  fault  with  Emerson's  best  things  and  over- 
praises those  which  are  more  commonplace,  calls  "The 
Seashore"  only  a  fragment,  and  the  "Concord  Hymn" 
perfect;  though,  to  do  him  justice,  he  adds  that  the 
latter  might  have  been  written  by  Collins.  Still,  as 
he  himself  admits,  after  all  criticisms,  selections,  an- 
alyses, comparisons,  "We  have  to  recognize  that  there 
is  a  charm  in  Emerson's  poems  which  cannot  be  de- 
fined any  more  than  the  fragrance  of  a  rose  or  a 
hyacinth."  His  final  summing  up  of  Emerson's 
poetry  as  a  whole  is  so  appreciative  of  its  distinction 
that  it  might  have  been  written  by  an  all-seeing  angel 
instead  of  by  a  very  human  doctor-poet: 

"His  poetry  is  elemental;  it  has  the  rock  beneath 
it  in  the  eternal  laws  on  which  it  rests;  the  roll  of 
deep  waters  in  its  grander  harmonies;  its  air  is 
full  of  aeolian  strains  that  waken  and  die  away  as 
the  breeze  wanders  over  them;  and  through  it 
shines  the  white  starlight,  and  from  time  to  time 
flashes  a  meteor  that  startles  us  with  its  sudden 
brilliancy." 

Lowell's  acquaintanceship  with  Emerson  began 
when,  as  a  boy,  he  was  suspended  from  college  for  a 
little  while  and  sent  to  rusticate  in  Concord.  Lowell 
had  heard  Emerson  lecture  before  this  time  in  Boston, 
and  had  been  impressed  by  Emerson's  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  address  at  Harvard  in  his  junior  year,  which 
he  seems  to  have  remembered  principally  for  the  pic- 
turesquesness  of  the  occasion,  due  to  the  very  advanced 
doctrine  to  which  Emerson  gave  utterance:  "What 
crowded  and  breathless  aisles,  what  windows  cluster- 


LOWELL.     1819-1891 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      283 

ing  with  eager  heads,  what  enthusiasm  of  approval, 
what  grim  silence  of  foregone  dissent!" 

When  he  came  to  Concord,  Emerson  evidently 
treated  the  rusticated  and  decidedly  egotistical  stu- 
dent with  great  kindness,  and  took  him  off  on  long 
walks,  one  of  which,  to  the  cliffs,  Lowell  especially 
remembered.  While  here  in  Concord,  Lowell  was 
writing  his  class  poem,  and  in  spite  of  his  admiration 
for  and  indebtedness  to  Emerson,  he  expressed  in  it 
his  youthful  disapproval  of  Emerson's  famous  Di- 
vinity School  address  of  July  15,  1838: 

"Woe  for  Religion,  too,  when  men  who  claim 
To  place  a  'Reverend'  before  their  name, 
Ascend  the  Lord's  own  holy  place  to  preach 
In  strains  that  Kneeland  had  been  proud  to  reach, 
And  which,  if  measured  by  Judge  Thacher's  scale, 
Had  doomed  their  author  to  the  county  jail! 
When  men  just  girding  for  the  holy  strife, 
Their  hands  just  cleansed  to  break  the  bread  of  life, 
Whose  souls,  made  whole,  should  never  count  it  loss 
With  their  own  blood  to  witness  for  the  cross, 
Invite  a  man  their  Christian  zeal  to  crown 
By  preaching  earnestly  the  gospel  down, 
Applaud  him  when  he  calls  of  earthly  make 
That  ONE  who  spake  as  never  yet  man  spake, 
And  tamely  hear  the  anointed  Son  of  God 
Made  like  themselves — an  animated  clod !" 

Thirty  years  later  Emerson  was  again  asked  to  de- 
liver the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  address.  Things  had 
changed.  Emerson  had  become  the  prophet  of  a  cult, 
the  centre  of  admiring  multitudes,  and  Lowell,  though 
not  a  disciple,  was  a  profound  admirer.  Edward 
Everett  Hale  speaks  of  having  observed  the  cordiality 


284      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

of  Lowell's  congratulations  when  Emerson  had  fin- 
ished. Lowell's  enthusiasm  was  genuine,  and  ex- 
pressed itself  in  the  same  sort  of  exalted  language, 
which,  we  have  seen,  was  generally  aroused  in  Emer- 
son's poetic  friends  when  they  heard  him  speak: 

"Emerson's  oration  was  more  disjointed  than  usual 
even  with  him.  It  began  nowhere  and  ended  every- 
where; and  yet,  as  always  with  that  divine  man,  it 
left  you  feeling  that  something  beautiful  had  passed 
that  way,  something  more  beautiful  than  anything 
else,  like  the  rising  and  setting  of  stars.  There  was  a 
tone  in  it  that  awakened  all  elevating  associations.  He 
boggled,  he  lost  his  place,  he  had  to  put  on  his  glasses ; 
but  it  was  as  if  a  creature  from  some  fairer  world 
had  lost  his  way  in  our  fogs,  and  it  was  our  fault  and 
not  his.  It  was  chaotic,  but  it  was  all  such  stuff  as 
stars  are  made  of,  and  you  could  not  help  feeling  that 
if  you  waited  awhile  all  that  was  nebulous  would  be 
hurled  into  planets,  and  would  assume  the  mathemat- 
ical gravity  of  system.  All  through  it  I  felt  something 
in  me  that  cried,  'Ha,  ha!  to  the  sound  of  trumpets!' ' 

Lowell  did  not  accept  Emerson's  poetry  with  the 
spontaneous  enthusiasm  of  Longfellow,  nor  yet  with 
the  sympathetic  appreciation  of  Holmes.  "As  a  poet 
we  must  give  Emerson  up,"  he  wrote,  with  his  mind 
glued  so  fast  to  Emerson's  rhythmical  oddities  that 
he  forgot  for  the  time  the  splendor  of  the  inspired 
moments.  His  criticism  in  "The  Fable  for  Critics" 
seems,  on  the  whole,  to  have  expressed  his  permanent 
opinion: 

"I'm  speaking  of  metres;  some  poems  have  welled 
From  the  rare  depths  of  soul  that  have  ne'er  been  excelled ; 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      285 

They're  not  epics,  but  that  doesn't  matter  a  pin, 

In  creating  the  only  hard  thing's  to  begin ; 

A  grass-blade's  no  easier  to  make  than  an  oak ; 

If  you've  once  found  the  way,  you've  achieved  the  grand 

stroke ; 

In  the  worst  of  his  poems  are  mines  of  rich  matter, 
But  thrown  in  a  heap  with  a  crash  and  a  clatter ; 
Now  it  is  not  one  thing  nor  another  alone 
Makes  a  poem,  but  rather  the  general  tone, 
The  something  pervading,  uniting  the  whole, 
The  before  unconceived,  unconceivable  soul, 
So  that  just  in  removing  this  trifle  or  that,  you 
Take  away,  as  it  were,  a  chief  limb  of  the  statue; 
Roots,  wood,  bark,  and  leaves  singly  perfect  may  be, 
But,  clapt  hodge-podge  together,  they  don't  make  a  tree."' 

Lowell  sometimes  worried  Holmes  with  his  rattlety- 
bang  lines,  and  Emerson  worried  Lowell  with  his 
hodge-podge.  This  impression  received  by  Lowell 
must  have  been,  in  many  cases,  due  to  his  lack  of 
comprehension  of  Emerson's  underlying  unity  of 
thought.  The  feeling  to-day  among  lovers  of  poetry 
is  that  the  spontaneous  delight  in  his  poetry  felt  by 
Longfellow,  Whittier  and  Holmes  is  a  surer  index 
of  Emerson's  place  as  a  poet  than  the  careful  analyz- 
ing of  Lowell.  Emerson  may  have  had  no  ear  for 
accent,  as  he  himself  is  said  to  have  acknowledged, 
but  he  put  ideas  so  freshly  and  spontaneously  that  a 
misplaced  accent  now  and  then  is  of  little  moment. 

Yet  Lowell  was  glad  to  have  poems  from  Emerson 
for  the  Atlantic,  and  even  wanted  to  print  three  or 
four  in  one  issue,  but  when  he  was  obliged  to  choose, 
took  "Days,"  which,  he  said,  was  as  "limpid  and  com- 
plete as  a  Greek  epigram." 


286      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

Emerson,  we  judge,  from  his  expressions  of  ap- 
preciation, thought  Lowell  more  of  a  poet  than  Long- 
fellow or  Holmes  or  Whittier,  probably  because  he 
had  more  of  that  seer-quality  at  times  than  any  one 
except  himself.  When  Longfellow  sends  him  a  book 
of  verse,  his  thanks  are  certainly  not  couched  in  very 
enthusiastic  language,  but  he  would  like  to  see  Long- 
fellow, for  he  has  some  things  he  would  like  to  say  to 
him  about  poetry.  Of  Lowell,  he  could  say,  however, 
after  reading  such  a  poem  as  his  "The  Washers  of  the 
Shroud":  "We  will  not  again  disparage  America, 
now  that  we  have  seen  what  men  it  will  bear.  What 
a  certificate  of  good  elements  in  the  soil,  climate,  and 
institutions  is  Lowell,  whose  admirable  verses  I  have 
just  read!  Such  a  creature  more  accredits  the  land 
than  all  the  fops  of  Carolina  discredit  it." 

Associated  with  our  poets  upon  intimate  terms  were 
men  not  only  distinguished  in  other  branches  of  liter- 
ature, like  Hawthorne  and  Motley,  Fenton  and 
Thoreau,  but  men  of  other  professions,  like  Sumner, 
Agassiz,  Judge  Hoar.  To  describe  the  relations  and 
inter-relations  existing  between  them  all  would  re- 
quire a  portly  volume.  Agassiz,  the  scientist,  seems 
to  have  been  especially  beloved,  and  has  been  cele- 
brated by  Lowell  in  his  fine  poem,  as  well  as  by  Em- 
erson in  his  "Adirondacks."  He,  with  Hoar,  Lowell, 
Emerson  and  a  few  others,  made  up  the  Adirondacks 
Club,  which  Emerson  describes,  on  an  outing,  in  the 
poem: 

"We  flee  away  from  cities,  but  we  bring 
The  best  of  cities  with  us,  these  learned  classifiers, 
Men  knowing  what  they  seek,  armed  eyes  of  experts. 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      287 

We  praise  the  guide,  we  praise  the  forest  life : 
But  will  we  sacrifice  our  dear-bought  lore 
Of  books  and  arts  and  trained  experiment, 
Or  count  the  Sioux  a  match  for  Agassiz?" 

Holmes  also  celebrates  Agassiz  in  "The  Saturday 
Club." 

At  this  club  we  had  our  first  glimpses  of  the  poets 
whom  New  England  delights  to  honor.  The  picture 
of  their  social  life  together  may  well  be  rounded  out 
by  an  account  of  an  Atlantic  dinner,  written  by  Mr. 
Underwood,  in  his  "Reminiscences  of  Lowell": 

"The  bright,  powerful,  and  inspired  faces  that  sur- 
rounded the  ellipse  come  to  mind  almost  like  a  sight 
of  yesterday.  Each  guest  in  turn  seems  to  fix  his  eyes 
upon  the  onlooker  in  this  miraculous  camera.  The 
group  is  immortal;  the  separate  faces  so  many  vary- 
ing expressions  of  genius.  Brilliant  lights  and  softly 
luminous  shades  seem  to  play  around  the  table,  until 
the  colors  and  forms  are  mingled  as  in  the  heart  of 
a  picture  by  Turner.  There  was  Holmes,  in  the  flush 
of  his  new  fame  as  the  Autocrat, — a  man  whose  genius 
flamed  out  in  his  speech  and  expression  as  clearly  as 
in  his  original  and  sparkling  works.  There  was 
Lowell,  with  features  of  singular  power,  and  eyes 
which  dazzled  and  charmed.  In  merriment  he  was 
irresistible ;  in  higher  moods  his  face  shone  like  a  soul 
made  visible.  There  was  Emerson,  thoughtful,  but 
shrewdly  observant,  and  with  the  placid  look  of  an 
optimistic  philosopher,  whose  smile  was  a  benediction. 
Longfellow,  with  a  head  which  Phidias  might  have 
modelled,  by  turns  calm  or  radiant,  seldom  speaking, 
but  always  using  the  fit  word.  Whittier,  with  noble 


288      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

head  and  deep-set,  brilliant  eyes,  grown  spare  and 
taciturn  from  ill-health,  an  ascetic  at  table,  eager  only 
for  intellectual  enjoyment. 

"There  was  no  lack  of  serious  and  even  spiritual 
conversation.  Holmes's  fire  often  fused  reasoning 
with  eloquence,  and  his  sentences  had  such  force,  pro- 
portion, and  finish  that  they  would  not  have  needed 
revision  for  print.  Lowell  always  talked  well  and 
often  brilliantly.  He  soared  naturally,  as  if  the  high 
regions  of  imagination  were  his  familiar  haunts.  And 
the  hearer  never  felt  that  Lowell  had  done  his  best, 
for  there  was  something  like  a  restrained  intensity, 
which  gave  the  impression  that  he  was  always  greater 
than  anything  he  had  done.  Every  competent  ob- 
server felt  that  his  career  would  be  a  crescendo.  Em- 
erson was  fond  of  listening,  but  after  a  set-to  he  often 
made  a  philosophical  summary  or  scholium  that  was 
beautiful  and  memorable." 

The  life  of  these  men  together,  literary  and  social, 
gives  us  a  delightful  impression  of  mid-nineteenth- 
century  New  England.  The  more  one  studies  it  the 
more  one  feels  its  gracious  and  uplifting  influences. 
If  there  were  any  jealousies  or  jars  or  smallnesses  of 
any  kind  among  them  they  certainly  do  not  come  out 
in  the  records  of  their  lives.  They  were  as  splendid 
a  group  of  men,  intellectually  and  morally,  as  the 
world  has  even  seen ;  sufficiently  original  in  genius  and 
temperament  to  make  distinctive  places  for  them- 
selves in  English  literature,  and  to  bring  into  it  the 
note,  in  varying  tones,  of  Democracy  triumphant,  not 
only  in  politics,  but  in  social  life — the  true  meaning  of 
which  is  freedom  to  be  just  and  honorable;  to  be  help- 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      289 

f til  to  and  appreciative  of  all  human  efforts ;  to  culti- 
vate one's  own  talents  to  the  uttermost,  with  modest 
faith  in  them  and  a  recognition  that  all  others  may  do 
the  same.  What  these  men  and  their  colleagues  have 
so  well  begun,  it  behooves  younger  generations  to 
follow.  The  chief  element  of  a  great  literature  is 
loyalty  to  lofty  ideals.  If  this  is  present,  as  it  was  to 
an  unusual  degree  in  all  these  poets,  there  may  be 
flaws  discoverable  in  imaginative  handling  and  tech- 
nique, but  they  concern  us  no  more  than  a  few  ir- 
regularities of  feature  in  one  whose  soul  we  love. 


THOUGHT: 
EMOTIONAL  AND  INTELLECTUAL 


291 


"As  the  birds  come  in  the  Spring, 

We  know  not  from  where; 
As  the  stars  come  at  evening 
From  depths  of  the  air; 

"As  the  rain  comes  from  the  cloud, 

And  the  brook  from  the  ground; 
As  suddenly,  low  or  loud, 
Out  of  silence  a  sound; 

"As  the  grape  comes  to  the  vine, 

The  fruit  to  the  tree; 
As  the  wind  comes  to  the  pine, 
And  the  tide  to  the  sea; 

"As  come  the  white  sails  of  ships 

O'er  the  ocean's  verge; 
As  comes  the  smile  to  the  lips, 
The  foam  to  the  surge; 

"So  comes  to  the  Poet  his  songs, 

All  hitherward  blown 
From  the  misty  realm  that  belongs 
To  the  vast  Unknown." 

— LONGFELLOW. 


299 


THOUGHT:  EMOTIONAL  AND  INTELLECTUAL. 

THE  final  measure  of  a  poet's  meaning  for  his 
time  and  country  is  to  be  found,  not  in  his 
treatment  of  nature,  of  romance,  nor  of  his- 
tory, but  in  the  tone  of  thought  and  feeling  which  per- 
vades his  work,  oftentimes  hidden  behind  the  doings  or 
the  thoughts  of  beings  quite  alien  to  himself,  but  at 
others  appearing  clearly  on  the  surface,  and  yet  again 
given  voice  to  in  direct  lyrical  or  philosophical  expres- 
sion. An  inquiry  into  the  personal  attitude  of  our 
poets  in  relation  to  New  England  thought  will  prove, 
I  think,  not  uninteresting. 

The  main  stream  of  thought  in  New  England  was 
that  of  the  Puritans,  in  whose  minds  existed  a  strange 
chaos  of  religious  bigotry  and  superstition.  On 
the  one  hand,  the  belief  that  human  nature  was  born 
depraved  and  only  to  be  rescued  by  Divine  Grace, 
gave  rise  to  an  austere  conception  of  life,  from  which 
everything  tending  in  the  direction  of  artistic  enjoy- 
ment was  banished.  On  the  other  hand,  the  belief 
in  witchcraft  and  magic,  though  all  handed  over  to 
the  devil,  and  to  be  feared  and  fought  to  the  death, 
actually  exercised  the  good  office  of  keeping  their 
imaginative  faculty  from  becoming  entirely  atro- 
phied. One  very  important  means  for  the  temper- 

293 


294      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

ing  of  Puritanical  narrowness,  thus  existed,  little 
as  he  suspected  it,  in  the  pristine  Puritan's  own 
mind.  One  of  the  chief  external  influences  destined  to 
aid  in  the  final  blossoming  of  so  emancipated  a  belief 
as  that  of  Unitarianism,  was  the  element  of  which 
the  Merry  Mounters  might  be  regarded  as  typical, 
namely,  a  spirit  of  fun  brought  in  by  unregenerate 
Episcopalians,  who  combined  with  their  religion  a 
zest  for  the  joy  of  living.  Another  was  the  element 
of  religious  tolerance  emphasized  by  the  Quakers. 
Whatever  else  was  needed  to  make  Puritanical  New 
England  not  only  Unitarian,  but  Transcendental, 
came  in  through  the  gates  of  education  with  German 
and  French  philosophy,  and  whatever  was  needed  to 
reduce  it  to  its  present  monistic  and  pragmatic  state 
of  unstable  equilibrium  came  in  with  science  and 
scholarship. 

One  other  element  existed  from  the  start,  and  that 
was  the  desire  for  freedom.  It  is  true  that  it  was  a 
desire  for  freedom  to  be  as  bigoted  and  intolerant  as 
possible,  but  even  such  a  desire  as  this  was  a  seed 
capable  of  growing,  and  when  it  was  watered  by  the 
doctrine  of  toleration,  however  irritatingly  admin- 
istered, and  shone  upon  by  the  joy  of  living,  however 
clouded  with  frivolity  that  sun  might  be,  it  was  bound 
to  expand  until  it  included  a  wish  that  all  as  well  as 
some  should  be  free,  and  should  enjoy;  hence  fur- 
ther expansion! — freedom  must  include  social  as  well 
as  political  and  religious  freedom;  joy  must  include 
the  higher  forms  of  art  as  well  as  dancing  around  a 
maypole,  as  the  giddy  company  of  Merry  Mount  did, 
and  a  familiarity  with  the  lore  of  thought  beyond  the 
utmost  range  of  the  learned  Cotton  Mather's  vision. 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      295 

How  much  of  this  thought  and  feeling  has  been 
reflected  in  the  poetry  of  our  little  New  England 
group ?  In  how  much  of  it  have  they  been  the  leaders?' 
These  are  important  questions  which  cannot  be  more 
than  glanced  at  in  the  scope  of  one  chapter,  but  once 
having  entered  upon  this  fascinating  road,  the  reader 
may  follow  it  as  far  as  inclination  leads. 

Bryant's  inheritance  and  his  early  environment 
were  Puritanic,  but  from  some  unknown  quarter  came 
the  endowment  of  a  love  for  beauty,  which  is  the  first 
need  of  a  poet.  It  is  more  than  likely  that  the  aus- 
terity of  his  childish  surroundings  affected  his  poetic 
sympathies,  so  that  he  was  especially  impressed  with 
those  English  poets  who  loved  to  discourse  upon 
death  in  their  verse.  At  any  rate,  it  was  after  he  had 
been  reading  Blair's  poem,  "The  Grave,"  and  others 
of  similar  purport,  that  he  had  his  inspiration  for  the 
poem  which  brought  him  his  first  recognition  as  a 
poet,  "Thanatopsis."  The  thought  of  nature  in  con- 
nection with  death  was  no  new  one.  It  belongs  to  the 
earliest  days  of  literature.  The  Greek  Idyllic  poets, 
Bion  and  Moschus,  sang  their  laments  in  terms  of 
nature  symbolism,  imitating  the  earlier  laments  for 
Adonis,  the  prototype  of  spring,  sung  by  Theocritus, 
which  was  itself  an  imitation  of  the  folk-loric  songs 
to  Linus,  an  earlier  shepherd-prototype  of  spring. 
Spenser,  Milton,  Tennyson — all  have  connected  with 
nature  symbolism  their  poems  on  the  death  of  friends. 
With  these,  however,  it  was  an  occasional  note;  in 
Bryant  it  becomes  one  of  the  constant  sources  of  his 
inspiration  and  a  dominant  note  in  his  philosophy  of 
life,  which  must  have  for  its  completeness  a  constant 
relation  ing  between  life  on  this  earth  and  life  after 


296      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

the  resurrection.  This,  then,  appears  to  be  the  chan- 
nel into  which  the  Calvinistic  influences  of  Bryant's 
inheritance  and  environment  flowed.  Opposed,  how- 
ever, to  this  consciousness  of  death,  was  his  delight  in 
the  beauty  of  nature,  so  intense  a  delight  that  he  has 
a  peculiar  consciousness  of  the  living  principle  in  na- 
ture. He  reminds  one  of  a  pristine  savage  in  the  so- 
called  animistic  phase  of  life  when  everything  not 
only  seemed  to  be  endowed  with  spirit  but  actually 
was  endowed  with  spirit.  We  have  already  seen  that 
this  consciousness  of  the  sentiency  of  inanimate  nature 
did  not  lead  him  to  much  individualized  description 
of  trees  or  flowers.  But  a  small  bouquet  of  exact 
flower-portraits  may  be  gathered  from  his  poems,  and 
trees  appear  in  groups  and  forests,  yet  they  live  and 
feel  and  smile  in  manifestation  of  the  divine  power 
flowing  through  them.  Whether  this  joy  in  nature 
was  entirely  the  natural  reaction  of  a  finer-fibred 
mind  from  the  dolefulness  of  Puritan  ideals,  or 
whether  it  was  nourished  in  any  way  by  external  in- 
fluences sifting  down  from  Merry  Mount  ideals,  it 
was  certainly  a  harmless  way  for  it  to  show  itself. 
The  relation  between  these  two  tendencies,  as  it  comes 
out  in  the  poetry,  is  interesting.  While  the  joy  in 
living  nature  sings  itself  alone  in  many  poems,  the 
consciousness  of  death  never  appears  without  being 
tempered  by  the  joy  element  in  nature,  serious  and 
dignified  though  it  be  in  expression.  In  "Thanatop- 
sis,"  for  example,  his  contemplation  upon  the  fact  of 
all  the  human  activity  which  has  returned  again  to 
the  bosom  of  nature  does  not  lead  to  melancholy] 
thoughts,  but  to  thoughts  of  the  magnificence  of  the 
couch,  and  the  illustriousness  of  the  company  with! 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      297j 

whom  all  shall  lie  down  in  one  sepulchre.  He  invokes 
mankind  to  approach  death  not  like  a  quarry  slave 
scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but  with  a  perfect  trust  like 
one  who  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams.  Other  phases 
of  the  problem  of  death  attract  his  attention.  One 
of  the  most  striking  of  these  is  discussed  in  a  poem 
written  almost  ten  years  later,  "A  Hymn  to  Death," 
in  which  he  declares  that  he  has  come  to  sing  the 
praises  of  death,  and  to  teach  the  world  to  thank 
death.  He  then  shows  that  death  is  the  avenger  of 
all  wrongs,  the  purger  of  evil  from  the  earth.  From 
the  first  of  time  death  has  been  on  the  side  of  virtue. 
The  poem  is,  in  fact,  a  striking  statement  of  a  belief 
in  the  evolution  of  goodness  through  the  survival  of 
the  fittest,  since  death  kills  the  evil.  Looked  at  in  its 
large  aspects  as  a  historical  process,  it  awakens  the 
poet's  enthusiasm.  It  seems,  however,  to  be  a  phil- 
osophical principle  stumbled  upon  by  the  poet,  and 
growing  perhaps  out  of  the  really  narrow  Calvinistic 
notion  that  God  is  constantly  punishing  evil-doers  by 
death  and  preserving  the  good  (many  examples  of 
which  may  be  found  in  Cotton  Mather) ;  for  the  sud- 
den death  of  his  exemplary  father  shows  him  an  ex- 
ample of  death  destroying  the  good.  His  philosophy; 
cannot  stand  up  against  this  seeming  contradiction* 
his  mood  changes  and  he  lets  the  poem  stand  only  as 
a  record  of  an  idle  revery.  The  subject  of  death  is 
approached  from  another  point  of  view  in  "A  Forest 
Hymn."  In  this  the  poet's  mood  is  in  sympathy  with 
the  never-ending  life  of  nature,  by  which  he  feels  that 
the  hate  of  death  is  conquered.  Once  more  he  seems 
to  stumble  upon  a  philosophical  or  scientific  principle, 
that  of  the  persistence  of  energy,  in  spite  of  change 


298      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

and  decay.  A  religious  turn  is  given  to  the  thought 
here  as  in  the  other  poem.  The  persistence  of  na- 
ture's indwelling  life  is  a  symbol  of  the  eternal  ex- 
istence of  God,  while  in  the  "Hymn  to  Death"  the 
poet's  consolation  for  the  death  of  his  father  lies  in 
the  thought  of  his  future  resurrection.  Examples 
might  be  multiplied  to  show  that  Bryant's  attitude 
toward  death  was  not  a  morbid  one.  It  was  the  neces- 
sary complement  of  life ;  and  whatever  problems  might 
arise  through  the  contemplation  of  it,  the  final  solu- 
tion lay  in  the  assurance  of  a  future  life,  the  possi- 
bilities of  which  the  poet  has  shown  in  a  poem  to  his 
wife  in  heaven,  called  "The  Future  Life."  Thus  his 
joy  in  the  beauteous  life  of  nature  taught  him  a  truer 
and  serener  attitude  toward  death  than  that  of  his 
Calvinistic  ancestors.  The  past  became  linked  in  his 
mind  with  the  future.  The  terrors  and  evils  of  his- 
tory would  be  blotted  out  by  death,  and  death  itself 
blotted  out  by  the  resurrection  into  eternal  life,  sym- 
bolized by  the  persistent  life  of  nature,  whose  myriad 
forms  revealed  the  power  and  love  of  God. 

When  Bryant  gives  himself  up  entirely  to  his  de- 
light in  nature,  his  Calvinism  disappears  entirely.  His 
romances,  however,  are  apt  to  have  sad  endings. 

Brilliant  imagination  was  certainly  not  character- 
istic of  Bryant,  yet  when  his  muse  carried  him  up 
among  the  clouds  and  the  stars,  he  could  have  visions 
of  an  almost  Shelleyan  order.  In  his  "Conjunction 
of  Jupiter  and  Venus,"  he  banishes  reason,  not,  to  be 
sure,  with  an  outburst  of  passion,  but  in  his  usual 
serene  manner,  and  declares  he  will  give  himself  up 
to  the  fair  illusions  of  the  past,  and  believe  that  such 
a  meeting  of  the  planets  has  a  direct  influence  on  the 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      299 

affairs  of  men.  It  is  a  curious  fact  that  his  most 
imaginative  work  came  late  in  his  life. 

The  clouds,  which  had  always  a  strange  fascination 
for  him,  were  the  inspiration  of  two  charming  frag- 
ments, written  in  1862,  "A  Tale  of  Cloudland,"  and 
"Castles  in  the  Air,"  which  surpass  all  he  had  written 
previously  in  the  display  of  delicate  fancy.  We 
can  hardly  believe  it  is  Bryant  who  tells  us  of  a  lovely 
vision  of  a  cloud-sprite,  with  round,  white  arms,  a 
gauzy  scarf  of  blue  streaming  from  her  shoulders, 
and  a  coronet  of  twinkling  points  like  sparks  of  sun- 
shine. The  mother  of  the  maiden  who  is  made  to  see 
this  vision,  reprimands  her  for  being  a  dreamer,  and 
for  imagining  that  any  but  the  Creator  Himself  is 
concerned  in  the  marshalling  of  the  clouds;  but  the 
intrepid  little  maiden  declares  that  though  she  speaks 
ever  reverently  of  the  Creator,  she  believes  that  in 
the  middle  air  there  abides  a  race,  who  do  His  will, 
and,  full  of  thought  and  kindness,  attend  to  the 
showers  and  the  shadows  which  relieve  the  heat  of  the 
noon-day  sun.  Truly,  this  first  of  American  poets, 
with  the  same  instincts  as  those  of  primitive  man,  has 
passed  from  a  feeling  that  there  is  spirit  in  all  inan- 
imate nature,  to  a  phase  in  which  he  personifies  this 
spirit.  Imagination,  having  been  degraded  by  the 
bigotry  of  religion  into  witchcraft  and  black  magic, 
the  implements  of  the  evil  one,  is  born  again  and  is 
now  become  art,  the  handmaid  of  Divine  power. 

In  "Castles  in  the  Air"  is  a  succession  of  pictures 
as  gorgeous  as  a  description  from  Keats's  "Endym- 
ion."  In  "Sella"  he  lets  his  imagination  revel  in 
the  depths  of  the  sea,  peopled  by  kind,  not  cruel, 
sea-nymphs,  one  of  whom  guided  Sella  thither  in 


300      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

magic  slippers.  Afterwards  her  brothers,  not  liking 
Sella's  long  absences  in  the  realm  of  the  sea  maidens, 
stole  Sella's  slippers  and  threw  them  far  out  in  the 
stream.  Sella  grieved  deeply,  but  conquering  her 
sorrow,  she  becomes  a  sort  of  goddess  of  every  human 
invention  for  the  artificial  supply  of  water — wells 
and  aqueducts  and  water-works — an  earthly  counter- 
part in  fact  of  the  cloud-sprite  in  the  "Tale  of  Cloud- 
land,"  who  took  charge  of  the  showers. 

Could  Bryant  have  known  that  in  this  imaginative 
story  he  was  again  following  the  lead  of  primitive 
man  by  inventing  a  myth  of  civilization?  If  it  were 
a  real  primitive  myth,  we  should  torture  our  under- 
standing to  discover  what  metaphorical  meaning 
there  was  in  the  slippers,  but  being  the  invention  of 
a  nineteenth-century  primitive  imagination,  we  are 
content  to  believe  them  just  magic  slippers  and  noth- 
ing more. 

In  "Little  People  of  the  Snow,"  written  in  1864, 
occurs  again  the  personifying  of  nature — the  snow- 
nymphs  lead  off  little  Eva  and  show  her  the  beauty 
of  their  snow-palace,  in  which  the  poet  has  another 
opportunity  for  imaginative  description.  They  bring 
her  back  to  earth,  but  the  journey  into  the  palace  of 
the  snow-people  has  been  too  much  for  poor  little 
Eva,  and  her  friends  find  her  frozen  to  death. 

The  birthright  of  the  founders  of  New  England, 
a  belief  in  freedom,  finds  expression,  as  we  have  al- 
ready seen,  in  his  verse.  It  leads  him  not  only  to  a 
recognition  of  the  meaning  of  political  liberty,  but 
to  an  expression  of  religious  toleration,  as  seen  in  his 
poem,  "The  Crowded  Street."  All  upon  the  street 
are  watched  over  by  Divine  love  and  thought,  includ- 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      301 

ing  even  the  lowest,  and  all  are  being  guided  to  their 
appointed  end. 

Freedom  in  the  abstract,  as  in  his  poem,  "The  An- 
tiquity of  Freedom,"  does  not  appear  to  Bryant  as  a 
youthful  goddess,  but  as  a  bearded  man  armed  to  the 
teeth,  who  has  fought  and  received  scars  in  many 
wars  and  must  fight  many  more  against  his  enemy, 
Tyranny,  until  the  birth  of  a  new  earth  and  heaven 
shall  arrive.  This  conception  of  freedom  is  a  fine  one, 
emphasizing  as  it  does  the  human  side,  and  yet  not 
interfering  with  the  thought  of  the  spirit  of  freedom 
as  ever  young  and  beautiful,  like  the  goddess  Lowell 
pictures. 

Cold,  Bryant  may  be,  as  Lowell  insists,  but  it  is 
only  a  surface  coldness.  Dignity  and  restraint  would 
better  describe  the  qualities  which  one  finds  in  his 
verse.  In  the  few  legends  and  tales  he  tells,  as  well 
as  in  his  poems  of  patriotism,  this  is  doubtless  a  blem- 
ish. They  lack  human  fervor,  but  that  he  was  a  man 
of  deep  and  true  feeling  is  proved  both  in  his  love  of 
nature  and  his  loyal  devotion  to  his  wife,  expressed  in 
such  poems  as  "The  Life  That  Is,"  "The  Future 
Life,"  and  "October."  This  devotion  stood  the  test 
of  death,  and  he  dares  to  look  forward  to  loving  her 
in  heaven,  because  he  can  trust  his  own  constant  soul. 

His  fundamental  conceptions  of  life  and  death 
never  changed.  He  remained  away  from  New  En- 
gland the  same  man,  and  his  poetry  was  affected  only 
in  its  external  aspects  by  its  somewhat  more  detailed 
descriptions  of  the  scenery  he  encountered  in  his 
travels  than  those  of  his  home  scenery  had  been. 

Though  he  did  so  little  to  impress  upon  his  work 
the  special  atmosphere  of  New  England,  we  feel  that 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      303 

heritance  of  the  poet.  It  is  not  surprising  either 
that  this  tolerant  Thomas  Whittier  should  have  been 
so  good  to  the  Indians  of  his  neighborhood,  that  dur- 
ing the  border  wars  when  every  other  inhabitant  of 
Haverhill  was  liable  to  be  scalped  at  any  moment, 
his  house  and  family  were  safe  from  molestation.  So 
secure  did  he  feel,  that  it  is  said  he  never  even  bolted 
his  doors  at  night. 

Whittier's  inheritance  and  environment  were  much 
more  closely  affiliated  with  the  romantic  aspects  of 
New  England  life  than  Bryant's  were,  owing  to  the 
fact  that  his  ancestors  had  remained  in  the  seaboard 
cradle  of  New  England,  while  Bryant's  had  isolated 
themselves  in  the  wilds  of  western  Massachusetts. 
Therefore  when  Nature  touched  John  Greenleaf 
Whittier  with  its  wand  of  genius,  he  found  close  to 
his  hand  a  richness  of  material  both,  as  before  noted, 
in  the  romance  and  history  of  the  region,  as  well  as 
in  its  varied  scenery.  Circumstances,  too,  fortunately 
kept  him  there,  in  the  midst  of  associations  which  the 
rapid  growth  of  the  big  cities  tended  to  blot  out; 
hence  all  things  worked  together  to  make  Whittier, 
more  than  any  other  of  the  six  poets,  not  only  the 
landscape  painter  of  New  England,  but  the  balladist 
of  its  early  life  and  traditions.  Fortunately,  too,  his- 
tory during  his  own  life  furnished  him  the  outlet  for 
that  fervor  of  freedom  burning  within  him,  and  he 
became  the  impassioned  singer  of  the  anti-slavery 
movement. 

Still,  while  he  was  working  for  the  dearest  wish 
of  his  soul,  and  after  it  had  become  a  reality  in  the 
freeing  of  the  slaves,  there  was  much  of  life  to  be 
lived  and  much  poetry  to  be  written.  The  direct 


304      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

expression  of  his  passion  for  freedom  passes  fre- 
quently into  the  more  inclusive  democracy  of  his 
"Songs  of  Labor  and  Reform,"  and  indirectly  it 
comes  out  in  the  romantic  ballads,  relating  tales  of  his 
own  day.  For  example,  in  "Maud  Muller,"  there  is 
the  Judge  of  high  degree,  in  whose  mind  there  ever  re- 
mains the  vision  of  the  simple  little  country  maiden 
whom  he  should  have  wedded  instead  of  the  proud 
and  fashionable  wife  he  did  not  love.  There  is  Amy 
Wentworth,  the  descendant  of  Colonial  knights  and 
ladies  gently  born,  who  scorns  her  perfumed  suitor, 
and  dreams  of  her  sailor-lover. 

There  is  the  city  belle  in  "Among  the  Hills,"  who 
weds  the  farmer.  Whittier  was  quite  aware  of  what 
he  was  doing  in  relating  such  tales  of  true  love,  so 
opposed  to  the  ordinary  conventional  ideas,  for  at  the 
close  of  this  poem  he  declares  that  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  if  we  found  the  truth  of  fact  and  fancy  more 
often  plighted,  and  simple  and  homely  hearths  graced 
with  beauty.  The  choice  of  the  story  of  the  countess 
gives  another  opportunity  for  a  love  story  in  which 
rank  is  thrown  aside. 

The  complete  presentation  of  his  views  on  de- 
mocracy are  given  in  the  poem  of  that  name,  wherein 
is  recognized  the  latent  manhood  of  every  human 
creature,  however  seemingly  debased.  From  the 
poems  following  in  this  division,  "Songs  of  Labor 
and  Reform,"  we  may  gather  Whittier's  point  of 
view  about  such  problems  as  capital  punishment,  and 
imprisonment  for  debt,  still  possible  in  his  lifetime. 
Against  both  of  these  he  raises  his  voice.  There  is 
hardly  a  "cause"  which  is  agitating  reformers  to-day, 
from  the  peace  movement  down  to  a  just  treatment 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      305 

of  labor  by  capital,  upon  which  Whittier  does  not 
touch,  his  sympathies  being  invariably  upon  the  side 
of  the  oppressed.  As  in  the  slavery  question,  he  looks 
for  the  growth  of  a  moral  sentiment,  which  will  deal 
with  the  problems  in  the  interest  of  humanity  and 
justice. 

The  prevailing  didacticism  of  this  group  of  poems 
disappears  in  a  series,  especially  entitled  "Songs  of 
Labor."  They  are  poems  in  honor  of  shoemakers, 
fishermen,  lumbermen,  ship-builders,  drovers  and 
buskers.  The  dignity  and  beauty  in  all  these  callings 
is  placed  before  us  with  the  same  sure  touch  as  he 
would  use  to  show  us  a  landscape.  These  poems  bring 
home  the  truth  that  the  power  of  the  artist  to  convince 
is  greater  than  that  of  the  preacher.  If  the  capitalists 
of  to-day  could  but  be  shown  in  some  mighty  vision 
the  inborn  beauty  of  labor,  would  the  labor  unions 
need  to  fight  so  hard  to  prove  what  Whittier  said  so 
many  years  ago,  "The  interests  of  the  rich  man  and 
the  poor  are  one  and  the  same,  inseparable  evermore"  ? 

Whittier  speaks  with  equal  clearness  of  his  re- 
ligion in  his  religious  poems.  The  still  small  voice 
speaking  within  each  human  being  tells  him  more 
surely  of  God  than  any  man-made  ritual.  This 
tenet  of  Quakerism  is  most  simply  and  beautifully 
expressed  in  "First-Day  Thoughts."  Along  with  the 
Quaker  detestation  of  form  went  a  tolerance  toward 
the  inner  truths  of  religious  thought — the  natural  out- 
come of  their  belief  that  God  had  spoken  to  all  nations 
and  races  to  some  extent,  while  His  full  revelation  to 
mankind  was  realized  only  in  the  person  of  Jesus. 
The  poem  in  which  these  ideas  are  most  fully  de- 
veloped is  "Questions  of  Life,"  in  which  Quaker 


306      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

belief  on  this  subject  is  summed  up  in  the  following 
lines : 

"I  listen  to  the  sibyl's  chant, 
The  voice  of  priest  and  hierophant ; 
I  know  what  Indian  Krishna  saith, 
And  what  of  life  and  what  of  death 
The  demon  taught  to  Socrates ; 
And  what,  beneath  his  garden-trees 
Slow  pacing,  with  a  dream-like  tread, 
The  solemn-thoughted  Plato  said; 
Nor  lack  I  tokens  great  or  small, 
Of  God's  clear  light  in  each  and  all ; 
While  holding  with  more  dear  regard 
The  scroll  of  Hebrew  seer  and  bard, 
The  starry  pages  promise-lit 
With  Christ's  Evangel  over-writ, 
Thy  miracle  of  life  and  death, 
O  Holy  One  of  Nazareth !" 

Other  poems  reveal  his  belief  in  the  Trinity  and 
his  faith  in  Christ  as  the  Redeemer.  His  feeling  in 
regard  to  immortality,  the  problem  so  often  broached 
between  him  and  Emerson,  does  not  reach  a  farther 
certainty  than  trust  that  "All  is  of  God  that  is,  and 
is  to  be;  And  God  is  good." 

All  of  Whittier's  religious  poems  together,  how- 
ever, do  not  convince  of  his  spiritual  perception  with 
the  force  that  his  unusual  poem,  "The  Vanishers," 
does.  It  was  written  shortly  after  his  sister's  death, 
and  in  it  he  uses  an  old  Indian  belief  in  spirits  as  a 
symbol  of  his  own  feeling.  Any  one  who  has  ex- 
perienced a  conviction  of  the  certainty  of  immortal- 
ity through  the  death  of  a  friend  will  feel  that  this 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      307 

poem,  delicate  in  fancy  as  it  is,  rises  almost  to  the 
dignity  of  a  revelation. 

That  nothing  might  be  wanting  in  the  New  Eng- 
land Whittier  knew  and  loved,  he  has,  in  his  "Poems 
Subjective  and  Reminiscent,"  given  us  some  glimpses 
of  his  own  heart,  and  his  own  life,  which  have  done 
perhaps  more  than  any  of  his  other  poems  to  endear 
him  to  the  present  generation.  Here  we  see  the 
little  barefoot  boy  flitting  gaily  about  amid  his 
flowers  and  bees,  his  berries  and  all  the  "tenants 
of  the  wood."  Can  this  be  the  Whittier  we  know, 
who  was  to  take  upon  himself  so  serious  a  work  for 
his  country?  Then  there  is  the  picture  of  the  actual 
school-house  he  attended;  and  what  child  to-day  does 
not  wonder  if  there  was  a  real  little  girl  who  once 
beat  Whittier  in  spelling  and  wished  she  had  not 
been  so  clever?  Children  may  well  like  this  little 
poem,  which  always  drew  tears  to  the  eyes  of  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes,  though  perhaps  no  child  would  un- 
derstand just  why. 

There,  too,  occurs  Whittier's  one  poem  based  upon 
a  personal  experience  of  a  feeling  that  certainly  ap- 
proached, if  it  did  not  actually  become  love,  "Mem- 
ories." Whatever  intensity  the  feeling  may  have  had, 
when  he  writes  the  poem,  it  has  become  a  tender  and 
sweet  memory,  still  with  power  to  bring  a  glow  to 
his  cheek  and  to  his  heart,  but  hardly  a  regret.  Doubt- 
less, the  "hopes"  and  "dreams"  inspired  by  this  at- 
tachment made  possible  the  tender  sympathy  with 
which  Whittier  always  treated  the  subject  of  love.  In 
spite  of  the  fact  that  he  never  married,  and  in  spite 
of  the  serenity  which  belonged  to  his  outlook  upon 
life,  no  one  could  accuse  him,  as  they  have  Bryant, 


308      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

of  coldness.  The  concreteness  of  his  imagination  gave 
him  so  many  objects  in  which  to  be  interested  that 
love  flowed  from  his  heart  in  many  directions.  His 
moral  fervor  was  but  another  name  for  love. 

The  most  important  of  these  personal  poems  is 
"Snow  Bound,"  which  was  received  with  such  enthusi- 
asm when  it  appeared  that  it  sold  for  some  time  at 
the  rate  of  a  thousand  copies  a  day. 

In  this  record  of  a  snow  storm  and  the  way  in  which 
the  time  was  spent  by  his  own  family  during  its  prog- 
ress, Whittier  has  given  an  imperishable  picture  of 
New  England  country  life  in  his  youthful  days.  He 
has  prefixed  the  poem  with  some  lines  from  Cornelius 
Agrippa,  in  praise  of  a  wood-fire,  and  also  some  lines 
from  Emerson's  poem,  "The  Snow  Storm": 

"Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow,  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight:  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farmhouse  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm." 

Whittier's  description  of  the  snow  storm  is  an  am- 
plification from  this  of  Emerson's.  "Announced  by 
all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky"  gives,  with  a  single  meta- 
phor, the  preliminary  omens  Whittier  describes  one 
after  another.  The  effects  of  the  storm  in  stopping 
up  the  farmhouse  doors,  the  group  around  the  fire,  and 
various  descriptions,  are  also,  for  the  most  part,  ex- 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      309 

pansions  from  Emerson's  one  or  two  comprehensive 
strokes.  In  this  process  of  expansion  Whittier  has, 
in  his  imaginative  comparisons  descriptive  of  the 
snow  effects,  added  a  grace  all  his  own,  a  "kind  of 
spiritual  picturesqueness,"  as  Lowell  said,  giving  to 
the  work  "a  peculiar  charm."  The  subject  of  the 
poem  is  not  the  storm,  however.  It  is  not  of  the  snow 
but  of  the  snow-bound  that  Whittier  writes.  The 
snow  storm  is  the  incident  that  occasions  the  poem,  by 
grouping  the  isolated  family  around  the  farmhouse 
fire,  hence  the  pertinence  of  the  motto  from  Cornelius 
Agrippa. 

Whittier  has  himself  aptly  described  the  scene  about 
the  fireside,  with  the  allusions  that  enliven  the  de- 
scription, as  Flemish  pictures  of  old  days,  which  he 
hopes  will  touch  the  heart  of  the  "worldling"  to  whose 
memory  such  "winter  joys"  of  his  boyhood  will  be 
recalled;  but  he  declares  they  will  have  a  historic 
interest  also  for  many  others  who  have  never  known 
its  like,  and  for  whom  it  is  a  transcript  of  old-time 
customs.  Lowell  said  of  these  Flemish  pictures  that 
they  "describe  scenes  and  manners  which  the  rapid 
changes  of  our  national  habits  will  soon  have  made  as 
remote  from  us  as  if  they  were  foreign  or  ancient. 
Already,  alas!  even  in  farmhouses,  backlog  and  fire- 
stick  are  obsolescent  words  .  .  .  already  are  the 
railroads  displacing  the  companionable  cheer  of  crack- 
ling walnut  with  the  dogged  self-complacency  and 
sullen  virtue  of  anthracite." 

Since  Lowell  wrote  this,  the  whirligig  of  time  has 
brought  round  the  modern  revival  of  the  fire  on  the 
hearth.  We  are  not  to-day  so  altogether  unacquaint- 
ed with  the  "companionable  cheer"  of  crackling  wood, 


310      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

as  Lowell  fancied;  though  it  must  be  admitted,  the 
office  of  the  fireplace  has  changed  somewhat.  Now, 
such  a  fire  is  the  sport  of  a  coolish  summer  evening  in 
a  seaside  or  country  cottage ;  then  it  not  only  cheered, 
but  did  all  the  cooking  and,  incidentally,  was  sup- 
posed to  keep  people  warm. 

The  curious  reader  may  still  see  at  Haverhill  the 
identical  hearth  around  which  the  particular  group 
of  people,  told  of  in  the  poem,  gathered.  Still  stands, 
a  little  off  the  road,  in  a  good  state  of  preservation, 
the  old  Whittier  homestead,  built  by  Thomas  Whit- 
tier,  in  1680.  The  long  kitchen  presents  much  the 
same  appearance  as  it  did  in  the  poet's  time.  Around 
the  hearth  stands  a  mysterious  array  of  pots  and  ket- 
tles which,  in  those  days,  used  to  do  duty  as  ovens  for 
baking  meat  and  so  on.  On  the  crane  hang  more 
ponderous  kettles,  and  we  get  the  impression  that 
Whittier,  whose  boots  (his  very  own  boots)  are  stand- 
ing on  the  hearth,  is  about  to  have  a  very  sumptuous 
dinner.  We  fancy,  too,  that  we  can  smell  the  fresh 
bread  baking  in  the  oven  in  the  chimney,  beside  the 
fireplace.  As  soon  as  he  has  partaken  of  everything 
from  these  many  kettles,  served  in  some  of  his 
mother's  wedding  china,  which  is  standing  on  the 
dresser  in  an  opposite  corner,  we  can  see  him  sit  down 
to  the  desk,  which  has  been  in  the  family  for  four 
generations,  and  is  as  fairly  furnished  forth  with  little 
drawers  and  pigeonholes  as  the  hearth  is  with  ket- 
tles, and  write  such  a  description  of  the  house  to-day 
as  he  actually  did  write;  for  still  it  nestles  under  a 
long  range  of  hills  which  stretch  off  to  the  west.  And 
still  is  it  surrounded  by  woods,  though  probably  not 
so  thick  as  formerly,  and  still  is  there  a  vista  of  low, 


il 


> 

<J  ""a? 

B3 

I* 

o  ^c 
3  p^ 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      311 

green  meadows,  picturesque  with  wooded  islands  and 
jutting  capes  of  upland.  Through  these  still  a  small 
brook,  noisy  enough  as  it  foams,  ripples  and  laughs 
down  its  rocky  falls,  winds  by  the  garden-side  si- 
lently, and  scarcely  visible,  to  a  still  larger  stream. 
Out  of  the  window  by  which  the  desk  stands  we  may 
look  over  at  the  barn,  not  so  far  off  as  we  had 
imagined  it,  though  it  might  seem  a  good  way  to  those 
obliged  to  dig  a  path  to  it  through  the  snow,  as  the 
boys  in  the  poem  do. 

Finally,  after  a  peep  into  his  mother's  bedroom, 
up  two  little  steps  from  the  kitchen,  and  hardly  larger 
than  an  ordinary  stateroom,  we  shall  settle  down  into 
this  good  woman's  rocking-chair,  not  forgetting  the 
"gray  wizard's  conjuring  book,"  the  fame  of  which 
had  spread  far  and  wide  through  the  countryside,  into 
which  the  children  stole  a  frightened  look.  Whittier 
himself  informs  us  that,  among  the  strange  people 
his  mother  knew  in  her  girlhood,  was  Bantam  the 
Sorcerer,  whose  conjuring  book,  which  he  opened 
solemnly  to  consult,  was  a  copy  printed  in  1651,  of 
Cornelius  Agrippa's  "Magic."  Mrs.  Field  mentions 
in  her  reminiscences  of  Whittier  that  his  mother  had 
a  firm  belief  in  witchcraft  in  her  younger  days,  even 
going  so  far  once  as  to  join  with  his  aunt  in  making 
a  wax  image  of  a  minister  they  did  not  like,  and  in 
melting  it  with  fire,  believing,  as  they  did  so,  that  the 
disliked  man  would  die.  However  this  may  be,  the 
devoutness  of  her  Quakerism  is  illustrated  in  the  poem 
by  the  incident  of  her  grave  look  when  she  recited 
some  tale  from  Sewall  or  Chalkley — ministers  and 
shining  lights  of  the  Friends'  denomination.  As  we 
dream  in  this  old  rocking-chair,  every  member  of  the 


312      THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

household,  described  so  vividly  by  Whittier,  seems  to 
start  out  of  the  past.  We  hear  the  mother  telling  her 
tales  of  her  youthful  experiences,  and  how  the  Indian 
hordes  came  down  at  midnight  on  Cocheco  town;  we 
listen  to  his  father's  numerous  and  various  adventures 
by  land  and  by  sea.  We  warm  up  at  the  thought  of 
the  romantic  survivals  in  the  heart  of  the  spinster 
aunt.  And  now  we  see  the  two  sisters,  so  strongly 
contrasted  by  Whittier.  The  elder  was  impulsive, 
earnest,  prompt  to  act,  and  almost  sternly  just,  but 
the  younger  seems  to  have  been  an  incarnation  of 
love.  For  her,  the  poet's  affection  is  expressed  as 
for  no  other  member  of  the  household.  She  was  his 
companion  not  only  in  his  rambles  through  the  coun- 
try-side, but  she  was  his  intellectual  companion  as 
well,  for  she  herself  had  poetical  accomplishments  of 
a  high  order.  In  describing  this  sister,  he  forgets  for 
a  time  the  fireside  scene,  and  expresses  only  his  love 
for  her,  falling  into  reflections  upon  her  death.  Most 
vividly  portrayed  of  all  the  group  are  the  school- 
master and  the  woman  guest.  Being  outside  the  fam- 
ily, the  poet  probably  found  it  easier  to  analyze  these 
two.  The  schoolmaster  was  one  Joshua  Coffin,  at 
one  time  engaged  in  a  dangerous  mission  connected 
with  slavery,  and  worthy,  therefore,  of  the  poet's  en- 
thusiasm when  he  exclaims,  "Of  such  as  he  shall  free- 
dom's young  apostles  be."  He  is  full  of  fun  and 
harmless  mischief;  but,  when  necessary,  can  be  a  man 
of  action.  He  is  learned,  but  possesses  that  grateful 
softener  of  learning — humor. 

Not  the  least  interesting  of  the  group  is  the  guest, 
Harriet  Livermore,  who  seems  a  strange  inmate  of 
this  quiet  household.  When  Whittier  was  a  little  boy 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      313 

she  taught  in  the  little  old  brown  schoolhouse  at  East 
Haverhill.  At  one  time  she  thought  of  becoming 
a  member  of  the  Society  of  Friends ;  but  an  unlucky 
burst  of  rage  discouraged  the  Friends  from  admitting 
her.  She  ended  by  becoming  a  Methodist  Perfec- 
tionist, and  was  in  the  habit  of  insisting  that  she 
was  incapable  of  sinning.  She  became  an  itinerant 
preacher.  In  her  journeyings  she  visited  Jerusalem 
three  times,  and  Egypt,  and  at  another  time  climbed 
Mt.  Libanus  to  visit  Lady  Stanhope,  who  had  mar- 
ried a  sheik  of  the  mountains.  Whittier  found  her  a 
woman,  tropical  and  intense,  a  blending  of  a  vixen 
and  a  devotee: 

"Her  tapering  hand  and  rounded  wrist 
Had  facile  power  to  form  a  fist; 
The  warm,  dark  languish  of  her  eyes 
Was  never  safe  from  wrath's  surprise. 
Brows  saintly  calm  and  lips  devout 
Knew  every  change  of  scowl  and  pout; 
And  the  sweet  voice  had  notes  more  high 
And  shrill  for  social  battle-cry." 

Thus  pass  the  figures  who  were  gathered  in  that 
plain  and  unpretentious  little  room  before  us,  im- 
mortalized by  a  poem,  which  they  in  turn  have  made 
immortal,  because  it  gives  a  bit  of  true  life  from  the 
past. 

This  poem  may  well  stand  as  a  type  of  Whittier 
at  his  best,  for  in  it  is  combined  his  poetic  appreci- 
ation of  the  beauty  of  nature,  his  keen  perception  of 
the  values  of  character,  and  a  reflective  note  called 
out  by  his  experiences  of  change  and  death,  hallowed 


314      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

by  love  and  religion.  He  does  not  dwell  upon  the 
past,  but  looks  forward  to  the  enlarging  life  of  hu- 
manity, which  the  developments  of  later  years  had 
made  possible.  The  poem  was  written  in  1866;  when 
he  speaks,  therefore,  of  "The  Century's  Aloe"  flow- 
ering to-day,  he  is  thinking  of  the  larger  life  opening 
for  America  through  the  winning  of  the  Cause  to 
which  he  devoted  so  many  years  of  his  life.  While 
this  moral  triumph  means  new  life  for  the  world,  in 
the  love  borne  to  those  dear  to  him  who  had  vanished 
from  earth  with  the  out-lived  past,  lies  the  dearer 
hope  of  immortality  for  him  who  can  see  "The  stars 
shine  through  his  cypress  trees." 

In  all  the  decades — one  may  almost  say  centuries— 
since  this  house  was  built,  there  has  been  so  little 
building  in  the  neighborhood  that  it  is  still  true  no 
house  can  be  seen  in  any  direction  from  it.  Even 
from  the  uplands  behind  the  house,  few  habitations 
are  visible,  though  the  view  extends  over  rolling  and 
dimpled  country  for  many  miles,  to  distant  hills.  Yet 
the  place  has  such  an  intimate  charm  about  it  that  it 
does  not  seem  at  all  lonely;  perhaps  because  in  our 
sub-consciousness  persists  the  fact  that  under  the  tree- 
tops  nearest  at  hand  is  the  ever-present  trolley,  which 
will  whirl  us  off  to  the  railroad  station  in  the  heart  of 
Haverhill  in  a  ride  of  not  more  than  fifteen  minutes. 

In  Longfellow's  poetry  there  is  no  militant  note  of 
any  sort.  He  has  the  perfect  calm  of  the  philosopher 
—not  one  who  has  passed  through  the  storm  and  stress 
of  strangling  problems  in  the  realm  of  ethics  and 
thought,  and  reached  a  haven  where  all  is  harmonized, 
but  one  who  has  never  been  aroused  to  the  fact  that 
there  were  any  such  problems.  He  was  born  into  an 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      315 

atmosphere  already  Unitarian,  his  bringing  up  was 
in  that  faith,  and  from  it  he  did  not  depart.     The 
transcendental  flights  of  Emerson  were  not  only  not 
attractive  to  him,  but  were  beyond  his  comprehen- 
sion. In  New  England,  during  the  life  of  Longfellow, 
Unitarianism  had  almost  the  prestige  of  an  estab- 
lished religion.     The  best  intellects  filled  its  pulpits, 
and  the  best  society  worshiped  in  its  pews.     The 
depraved  and  sinful  humanity  of  the  Puritans  had 
given  place  to  the  essentially  good  humanity  of  the 
Unitarians.      After    searching    the    Scriptures    dili- 
gently,   they   did   not   find   sufficient   proof   of   the 
Trinity,  but  they  found  in  Jesus  the  perfect  model  of 
manhood,  therefore  others  could  attain  unto  a  similar 
perfection.     The  Quakers  learned  of  God  through 
the  revelation  of  the  still,  small  voice  within  them. 
The  Unitarians  learned  of  Him  similarly,  in  the  words 
of  Channing,  from  their  own  souls:   "In  these  is  the 
fountain  of  all  divine  truth.    An  outward  revelation 
is  only  possible  and  intelligible,  on  the  ground  of 
conceptions  and  principles,  previously  furnished  by 
the  soul."    And  again,  "The  grand  ideas  of  Power, 
Reason,  Wisdom,  Love,  Rectitude,  Holiness,  Bless- 
edness, that  is,  of  all  God's  attributes,  come  from 
within,  from  the  action  of  our  own  spiritual  nature." 
Longfellow's  religion  being  so  thoroughly  that  of 
his  times,  there  was  no  possibility  of  religious  mili- 
tancy in  his  verse.    Its  ethics,  too,  being  that  of  Chris- 
tianity, did  not  require  expounding,  but  only  reiter- 
ating; therefore,  what  thought  there  is  in  his  poetry 
takes  for  granted  a  settled  system  of  religion  and 
ethics,  and  falls  into  a  mere  pointing  of  morals,  ac- 
cording to  accredited  opinion.     That  this  moral  is 


316      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

often  appended  at  the  end  of  a  poem,  instead  of  being 
emotionally  worked  into  the  body  of  it,  brings  much 
of  Longfellow's  thought  under  the  ban  of  didacticism. 
There  is  a  certain  advantage,  however,  in  a  poet's 
having  no  far-reaching  ideals  to  uphold.  It  leaves 
his  poetic  faculty  quite  free  to  roam  through  life  or 
literature  on  the  search  for  romantic  incidents  and 
episodes,  which  he  may  work  up  into  forms  of  beauty, 
epic,  or  narrative,  or  dramatic.  Of  course,  if  he  be 
a  great  poet,  we  hunt  for  signs  and  portents  in  such 
poems,  of  the  underlying  ideals  of  the  man.  If  he  be 
not  so  great,  we  are  content  to  take  the  story  for 
itself. 

Modern  criticism  finds  itself  committed  to  a  curious 
paradox  in  dealing  with  Longfellow's  poetry.  It 
admits  that  he  was,  and  still  is,  the  most  popular  of 
American  poets,  at  the  same  time  that  it  declares  his 
work  to  be  purely  academic.  This  last  assumption  is 
based  upon  the  fact  that  the  bulk  of  his  subject  mat- 
ter is  derived  from  the  literature  of  the  past.  This  is, 
of  course,  true,  as  it  is  of  most  of  the  poets  whom  we 
have  been  accustomed  to  call  great.  What  poet  is 
there  who  does  not  take  any  story  which  appeals  to 
his  sense  of  beauty,  as  subject  matter?  As  Long- 
fellow's treatment  of  his  stories,  even  when  from  his- 
tory, are  notoriously  inaccurate,  he  was  certainly  not 
academic,  as  far  as  a  careful  regard  for  facts  is  con- 
cerned. On  the  contrary,  he  was  romantic,  first  and 
last ;  and  this  quality  it  is  which  makes  him  popular— 
that  is,  his  power  of  telling  a  story  so  that  it  will  ap- 
peal to  the  sentiments  of  the  average  heart — senti- 
ments that  do  not  grow  out  of  profound  knowledge 
either  of  men  or  things,  nor  yet  out  of  complex 


w 

M 

O 

HH 

rt 

O 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      317 

emotions,  but  which  are,  nevertheless,  the  sincere  feel- 
ings of  those  who  experience  them. 

When  Longfellow  was  writing,  there  were  prob- 
ably more  of  these  simple  natures  than  there  are 
to-day,  though  there  are  still  many  to  whose  sym- 
pathies the  poet  speaks  directly.  And  possibly  to  the 
future  critic,  so  supremely  developed  that  he  does  not 
befog  himself  with  his  own  profundity  of  thought 
and  his  own  complexity  of  emotion,  the  spontaneity 
of  Longfellow's  sentiment  upon  its  own  plane  may 
again  become  evident  and  to  be  enjoyed  by  him,  whom 
I  may  call  the  super  or  beyond- pro  found,  as  well  as 
by  the  simple.  When  to  Longfellow's  romantic  tem- 
perament is  added  his  conventional  morality,  per- 
vaded by  an  undoubted  religious  atmosphere,  yet  one 
never  antagonizing  by  being  crystallized  into  an  ex- 
pression of  any  particular  sect  or  creed,  the  remaining 
element  for  complete  popularity  is  added.  And  is 
it  not  this  conventional  aspect  of  Longfellow's  mind 
which  the  modern  critic  has  called  academic?  Lowell, 
in  spite  of  his  greater  richness  of  mood  and,  at  times, 
greater  exaltation  of  emotion,  shows,  in  his  tenden- 
cies to  ruminate  over  various  facets  of  his  sub- 
ject, more  than  Longfellow,  the  effect  of  academic 
training. 

Though  Longfellow's  poetry  rarely  approaches 
purely  spiritual  regions  of  thought,  his  long  poem, 
"Christus,"  was  one  which  reflected  most  nearly  his 
inner  life.  But  even  here,  his  plan  was  conventional. 
Three  phrases  of  religious  growth  are  symbolized, 
"Faith,  Hope  and  Charity."  If  we  were  not  told,  on 
good  authority,  that  Longfellow  had  never  departed 
essentially  from  his  Unitarian  views,  his  treatment  of 


318      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

the  "Divine  Tragedy"  would  indicate  him  to  be  a 
devout  Trinitarian.  The  presentation  of  this  first 
phase  in  Christianity  is  entirely  in  the  light  of  this 
doctrine.  It  is  a  poem  in  dramatic  form,  rather  than 
a  drama,  and  tells  very  simply,  and  often  beautifully, 
of  the  events  in  the  life  of  Christ,  with  an  occasional 
imaginative  addition  in  the  development  of  the  minor 
characters.  Still,  neither  in  this,  in  the  "Golden 
Legend,"  the  second  part,  nor  in  the  third  part,  "The 
New  England  Tragedies,"  is  there  any  attempt  at 
philosophical  or  spiritual  interpretation.  Stories  re- 
flecting the  thought  and  action  of  each  period  they 
are,  and  nothing  more.  Even  in  the  interludes,  the 
poet  does  not  contrive  to  throw  in  any  vision  beyond 
that  actually  in  character  with  the  Abbot  Joachim, 
and  Martin  Luther,  from  which  we  might  discover 
his  own  spiritual  outlook. 

The  only  passage  in  which  Longfellow  seems  to 
be  expressing  himself  is  at  the  end,  in  an  epilogue, 
put  into  the  mouth  of  "SAINT  JOHN  wandering  over 
the  face  of  the  Earth."  Here,  a  religion  of  deeds,  not 
creeds,  is  declared  to  be  the  only  grace  for  saving  hu- 
manity. Saint  John,  weary  with  his  wanderings, 
having  seen  kingdoms  crumble  into  dust,  and  still 
neither  peace  nor  love  triumphing,  exclaims: 

"What  then!  doth  Charity  fail? 
Is  Faith  of  no  avail? 
Is  Hope  blown  out  like  a  light, 
By  a  gust  of  wind  in  the  night? 
The  clashing  of  creeds  and  the  strife 
Of  the  many  beliefs,  that  in  vain 
Perplex  man's  heart  and  brain, 
Are  naught  but  the  rustle  of  leaves 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      319 

When  the  breath  of  God  upheaves 

The  boughs  of  the  Tree  of  Life, 

And  they  subside  again ! 

And  I  remember  still 

The  words  and  from  whom  they  came, 

Not  he  that  repeateth  the  name, 

But  he  that  doeth  the  will." 

This  is  the  conclusion  to  which  Longfellow's  care- 
ful study  of  the  historical  growth  of  Christianity 
brought  him,  and  with  it  goes  a  simple  faith  in  Christ 
as  the  supreme  doer  of  deeds,  and  an  example  to  be 
followed  which  is  far  from  Calvinism,  and  truly  re- 
flects the  spirit  of  Unitarianism: 

"And  Him  evermore  I  behold 

Walking  in  Galilee, 
Through  the  cornfield's  waving  gold ; 
In  hamlet,  in  wood,  and  in  wold, 

By  the  shores  of  the  Beautiful  Sea. 
He  toucheth  the  sightless  eyes ; 

Before  Him  the  demons  flee; 
To  the  dead  He  sayeth:  Arise! 

To  the  living:  Follow  me! 
And  that  voice  still  soundeth  on 
From  the  centuries  that  are  gone 

To  the  centuries  that  shall  be!" 

The  strongest  note  struck  by  Longfellow  is  in  his 
feeling  for  art.  It  finds  expression  in  one  of  his  lat- 
est poems,  "Michael  Angelo,"  through  whose  passion 
for  his  own  art,  the  conviction  grows  that,  here,  in 
art — the  poet's  art — burned  the  torch  of  Longfellow's 
own  loftiest  enthusiasm.  This  is  borne  out  by  the  fact 


320      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

that  he  was,  most  exclusively  of  the  whole  group,  a 
literary  man. 

He  chafed  at  his  professorship  as  long  as  he  held 
the  chair  at  Harvard,  and  was  only  completely  satis- 
fied when  his  time  became  all  his  own,  and  he  could 
devote  as  much  of  it  as  he  wished  to  his  creative  work. 
If  his  genius  did  not  bear  him  often  into  the  rarefied 
regions  of  the  loftiest  poetry,  he  had  at  least  the  as- 
pirations of  the  true  poet,  and  an  unquenchable  thirst 
for  poetic  beauty,  and  so  he  makes  Michael  Angelo 
say: 

"Not  events 

Exasperate  me,  but  the  funest  conclusions 
I  draw  from  these  events ;  the  sure  decline 
Of  art,  and  all  the  meaning  of  that  word; 
All  that  embellishes  and  sweetens  life, 
And  lifts  it  from  the  level  of  low  cares 
Into  the  purer  atmosphere  of  beauty; 
The  faith  in  the  Ideal;  the  inspiration 
That  made  the  canons  of  the  church  of  Seville 
Say,  'Let  us  build,  so  that  all  men  hereafter 
Will  say  that  we  were  madmen.' ' 

In  his  poems,  "Prometheus"  and  "Epimetheus," 
Longfellow's  poetic  fervor  is  again  emphasized,  and 
though  he  may  not  have  been  of  the  bards  he  mentions, 
who,  in  sublime  endeavor,  scale  the  walls  of  heaven- 
there  are  few  such — we  can  say  of  him,  with  absolute 
sincerity  in  his  own  words : 

"Yet  all  bards,  whose  hearts  unblighted 

Honor  and  believe  the  presage, 
Hold  aloft  their  torches  lighted, 
Gleaming  through  the  realms  benighted, 

As  they  onward  bear  the  message!" 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      321 

From  what  has  been  said,  it  is  evident  that  Long- 
fellow's poetry  was  an  outcome  of  the  gentlest  and 
most  cultured  influences  of  his  time,  that  it  reflected 
the  orthodox  liberalism  in  religion  and  the  pure  morals 
which  distinguished  the  best  classes  in  New  England 
in  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century,  but  that 
he  was  in  no  sense  a  leader  either  in  spiritual  vision 
or  in  the  making  of  the  momentous  events  of  the 
times.  He  was,  however,  owing  to  his  professorship 
at  Harvard,  a  leader  in  the  awakening  of  an  interest 
in  literature  and  poetry  for  its  own  sake,  and  in  his 
work  this  forward-looking  ideal  is  strongly  and  di- 
rectly expressed  more  than  once,  while  one  feels  that 
the  impelling  motive  of  all  he  did  was  devotion  to  his 
own  art  of  bard. 

We  go  to  Whittier  if  we  wish  to  receive  vivid  im- 
pressions of  the  sterner  side  of  public  life  in  New 
England,  but  for  impressions  of  the  multifarious 
activities  that  belong  to  the  normal  social  and  public 
life  of  New  England — seen  in  institutions  which  re- 
cord their  growth  by  anniversaries ;  diplomatic  doings 
which  blossom  out  in  banquets;  clubs,  which  rejoice  in 
periodical  dinners,  we  go  to  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 
It  may  seem  a  waste  of  time  for  a  poet  to  devote  so 
much  of  it  to  poems  for  occasions,  yet  it  is  no  small 
thing  to  have  been  so  successful  in  this  kind  of  poetic 
effusion  that  no  festival  occasion  was  considered  com- 
plete without  a  poem  from  Holmes.  Tournaments 
and  Courts  of  Love  had  their  troubadours  and  jon- 
gleurs in  the  middle  ages;  why  should  not  Unitarian 
societies  and  mercantile  library  associations,  and  the 
proprietors  of  the  Long  Wharf  in  Boston  have  theirs 
in  the  nineteenth  century? — not  to  speak  of  innumer- 


322      THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

able  birthdays,  arrivals  and  departures  of  distin- 
guished people,  from  the  Grand  Duke  Alexis  to 
Agassiz,  from  Humboldt's  birthday  to  President 
Everett's  inauguration  at  Harvard.  Considering  how 
constant  the  demands  were  upon  his  occasional  muse, 
who  is,  for  the  most  part,  a  laughter-loving  goddess, 
though  she  could  be  gracefully  serious  at  need,  it  is 
remarkable  what  a  high  grade  of  cleverness  and  hu- 
mor, spiced  with  sarcasm  sometimes,  and  salted  down 
with  wisdom  at  others,  he  succeeded  in  maintaining. 
Open  at  random  to  any  of  his  poems  for  occasions, 
and  you  will  fall  upon  some  choice  bit,  which  will  at 
once  amuse  and  show  what  a  penetrating  observer  of 
human  foibles  the  merry  doctor  was.  Take  this,  for 
example : 

"Sweet  is  the  scene  where  genial  friendship  plays 
The  pleasing  game  of  interchanging  praise. 
Self-love,  grimalkin  of  the  human  heart, 
Is  ever  pliant  to  the  master's  art ; 
Soothed  with  a  word,  she  peacefully  withdraws 
And  sheathes  in  velvet  her  obnoxious  claws, 
And  thrills  the  hand  that  smooths  her  glossy  fur 
With  the  light  tremor  of  her  grateful  purr." 

Or  this  piece  of  pure  fun  and  nonsense,  from  "A 
Modest  Request": 

"THE  SPEECH.    (The  speaker,  rising  to  be  seen, 
Looks  very  red  because  so  very  green.) 
I  rise — I  rise — with  unaffected  fear — 
(Louder! — Speak  louder! — Who  the  deuce  can  hear?) 
I  rise — I  said — with  undisguised  dismay — 
Such  arc  my  feelings  as  I  rise,  I  say ! 


BEACON  STREET  HOUSE  OF  HOLMES 
From  a  photograph  by  Ethel  C.  Brown 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      323 

Quite  unprepared  to  face  this  learned  throng, 

Already  gorged  with  eloquence  and  song; 

Around  my  view  are  ranged  on  either  hand 

The  genius,  wisdom,  virtue  of  the  land; 

'Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed,' 

Close  at  my  elbow  stir  their  lemonade." 

It  is  safe  to  say  that  if  all  the  records  of  nineteenth- 
century  New  England  were  swept  away,  and  from 
the  ruins  should  be  excavated  a  copy  of  Holmes's 
poems,  it  would  furnish  all  that  would  be  needed  in 
the  way  of  material  for  the  reconstruction  of  a  pic- 
ture showing  the  genial  manners  and  customs  of  the 
religion-enfranchised  descendants  of  the  Puritans. 

Besides  these  larger  aspects  of  social  life,  one  will 
find  an  almost  complete  record  of  the  formal  and  so- 
cial life  of  Harvard  College,  from  the  time  of  his 
graduation  to  his  death.  Constantly  he  was  called 
on  for  poems,  both  at  the  formal  ceremonies  and  at 
the  annual  meetings  of  his  class,  which  graduated 
in  1829. 

Holmes  was  not,  like  Longfellow,  bred  in  Unita- 
rian doctrine.  He  even  studied  at  Andover,  the 
stronghold  of  Calvinism,  after  the  progressive  spirit 
of  Harvard  had  left  Calvinism  behind.  He  was  not 
the  man,  however,  to  withstand  the  spirit  of  the  age, 
and  so  he  departed  from  the  ways  of  his  father,  and 
became  a  sound  Unitarian.  His  Unitarianism,  how- 
ever, did  not  take  him  finally  in  the  direction  of  the 
more  spiritualized  religious  attitude  of  Emerson.  He 
could  truly  say,  "I  like  a  church,"  for  not  only  was 
he  a  constant  attendant  at  King's  Chapel,  but  one  of 
his  most  cherished  ambitions  was  to  write  fine  hymns. 
Looking  through  his  work,  one  will  find  quite  a  num- 


324      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

ber  of  his  occasional  poems  written  in  this  form. 
Holmes  was,  in  fact,  a  curious  outcome  of  New  Eng- 
land civilization.  His  orthodox  inheritance  was 
probably  responsible  for  his  conservatism  in  many  di- 
rections. He  not  only  loved  the  "trappings"  of  the 
church,  but  he  loved  the  people  who  had  grandfathers, 
though  he  does  admit  that  a  man  without  a  family 
portrait  may,  after  being  proved,  turn  out  to  be  re- 
spectable. Still  this  is  very  far  from  the  all-embracing 
democracy  of  Whittier.  He  was  slow  to  see  the 
worth  of  social  reform;  he  regarded  mystical  vagaries 
as  mere  fancies;  yet  the  Pilgrim's  birthright  of  a 
desire  for  freedom  concentrated  itself  upon  his  neces- 
sity for  a  more  rational  basis  of  religious  thought 
than  he  found  in  Calvinism.  Having  arrived  at  this 
point,  so  characteristic  of  the  time,  was  there  any  ele- 
ment of  progressive  thought  which  he  especially  em- 
phasized? Emotionally,  as  we  have  seen,  he  was 
chiefly  social  in  his  poetic  expression,  but  there  is  a 
distinctively  new  note  brought  by  him  into  the  poetry 
of  the  period,  a  note  which  is  due  probably  both  to 
the  rationalistic  bent  of  his  mind  and  to  his  scientific 
training.  Such  a  poem  as  "The  Living  Temple"  is 
based  on  the  accurate  scientific  knowledge  of  the  pro- 
fessor of  anatomy,  and  that  he  has  transmuted  this 
knowledge  into  genuine  poetry  should  silence  all  those 
who  insist  that  science  cannot  be  poetic.  Take,  for 
example,  this  description  of  the  brain,  and  its  mar- 
velous powers: 

"Then  mark  the  cloven  sphere  that  holds 
All  thought  in  its  mysterious  folds; 
That  feels  sensation's  faintest  thrill, 
And  flashes  forth  the  sovereign  will. 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      325 

Think   on   the   stormy  world   that  dwells 
Locked  in   its  dim  and  clustering  cells ! 
The  lightning  gleams  of  power  it  sheds 
Along  its   hollow  glassy  threads !" 

Besides  those  poems  in  which  the  scientific  lore  of 
the  physician  is  prominent,  there  are  others  in  which 
allusions  of  a  special  scientific  nature  occur,  showing 
a  familiarity  on  his  part  with  other  branches  of  science 
than  his  own.  Imitative  coloring  in  nature  is  touched 
on  in  these  lines  from  "The  Mind's  Diet": 

"When  the  fiirst  larvae  on  the  elm  are  seen, 
The  crawling  wretches,  like  its  leaves,  are  green ; 
Ere  chill  October  shakes  the  latest  down, 
They,  like  the  foliage,  change  their  tint  to  brown." 

And  here  is  a  stanza  "compounded"  of  allusions 
based  upon  a  knowledge  of  cosmic  and  geological 
evolution : 

"Eternal  Truth!  beyond  our  hopes  and  fears 
Sweep  the  vast  orbits  of  thy  myriad  spheres! 
From  age  to  age  while  history  carves  sublime 
On  her  waste  rock  the  flaming  curves  of  time, 
How  the  wild  swayings  of  our  planet  show 
That  worlds  unseen  surround  the  world  we  know  !" 

The  poem  which  reflects  most  completely  his  habit- 
ually scientific  attitude  of  mind  is  the  long  one  from 
"The  Poet  at  the  Breakfast  Table,"  "Wind-Clouds 
and  Star-Drifts."  Holmes  is  intensely  in  earnest  in 
this  poem,  and  from  it  one  may  glean  more  of  this 
poet's  genuine  thought  than  from  any  other  of  his 


326      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

poems.  In  this  the  young  astronomer  discourses 
upon  a  number  of  subjects  with  the  true  scientific 
spirit.  His  ambition  is  to  discover  a  planet  to  which 
his  name  shall  be  linked.  Far  better  such  a  garland 
of  fame,  which  time  cannot  change,  than  the  laurel 
of  the  hero,  whose  fame  will  be  stamped  out  by  some 
stronger  hero.  He  rises,  however,  to  the  higher  stand 
that  it  is  even  greater  to  leave  your  work  to  humanity 
without  your  name.  In  the  second  division  "Regrets," 
the  mood  is  one,  at  first,  of  scorn  for  mankind's  little 
life  as  contrasted  with  the  life  and  death  of  worlds. 
The  astronomical  imagery  here  is  very  fine.  The 
possible  future  of  the  earth  is  foreseen : 

"When  the  old  hulk  we  tread  shall  be  a  wreck, 
A  slag,  a  cinder,  drifting  through  the  sky." 

Or,  as  the  new-born  seer,  with  greater  wisdom  fore- 
tells, the  time  must  come  when  its  growing  mass,— 

"Pelted  with  star-dust,  stoned  with  meteor  balls, 
Heats  like  a  hammered  anvil,  till  at  last 
Man  and  his  works  and  all  that  stirred  itself 
Of  its  own  motion,  in  the  fiery  glow 
Turns  to  a  flaming  vapor,  and  our  orb 
Shines  a  new  sun  for  earths  that  shall  be  born." 

What  profits  all  earthly  fame  in  view  of  this  catas- 
trophe? The  result  of  this  meditation  is  to  awaken  in 
the  astronomer's  mind  a  wish  to  exchange  all  the 
myriad  lifeless  worlds  he  visits  for  one  poor  patch  of 
earth,  where  he  may  in  word  or  deed  serve  mankind. 

In  the  third  division  the  astronomer  decides  to  tell 
in  verse  to  his  Muse  the  story  of  his  life.  A  boy  run 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      327 

wild  from  books  and  teachers,  he  had  been  sought  by 
an  aged  scholar,  learned  in  astronomy,  whose  pupil  he 
became.  He  grows  to  be  master  of  all  the  wise  man's 
learning,  and  in  the  end,  the  guardian  of  his  fame,  his 
staff  and  his  guide,  until  at  last  the  old  man  died. 
Left  alone  to  watch  the  silent  worlds  that  crowd  the 
sky,  he  became  the  searcher  of  the  causes  of  all  things. 
The  following  lines  express  exactly  the  scientific  at- 
titude of  mind  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  may 
be  taken  as  an  index  to  the  poet's  own: 

"Thus  have  I  learned  to  search  if  I  may  know 
The  whence  and  why  of  all  beneath  the  stars 
And  all  beyond  them ;  and  to  weigh  my  life 
As  in  a  balance, — poising  good  and  ill 
Against  each  other, — asking  of  the  Power 
That  flung  me  forth  among  the  whirling  worlds, 
If  I  am  heir  to  any  inborn  right, 
Or  only  as  an  atom  of  the  dust 
That  every  wind  may  blow  where'er  it  will." 

He  goes  on  in  the  same  scientific  spirit  to  declare 
that  his  search  for  truth  will  be  absolutely  fearless, 
his  life  shall  be  a  challenge,  not  a  truce!  Under  the 
divisions  "Worship"  and  "Manhood,"  are  meditations 
upon  the  nature  of  God.  He  shows,  as  a  Spencer  or  a 
Fiske  might,  the  differing  conceptions  of  God  which 
have  been  held  by  mankind,  except  that  his  thought 
is  instinct  with  the  passion  of  the  poet.  He  does  not 
spare  to  express  his  scorn  for  the  crude  conceptions 
of  the  past,  especially  when  they  are  those  of  his 
ancestors,  near  enough  at  hand  to  bring  home  fully 
the  horrors  of  their  cruelty, — horrors 


328      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

"That  blot  the  blue  of  heaven  and  shame  the  earth 
As  would  the  saurians  of  the  age  of  slime, 
Awaking  from  their  stony  sepulchres 
And  wallowing  hateful  in  the  eye  of  day." 

The  triumph  of  man  to-day  is  that  he  is  himself  a 
god, — conscious  that  no  conception  of  God  is  final, 
but  that  it  must  ever  become  higher  and  purer  as 
man's  developing  spirit  reveals  to  him  loftier  ranges 
of  moral  and  spiritual  beauty: 

"Ye  are  as  gods !     Nay,  makers   of  your  gods, — 
Each  day  ye  break  an  image  in  your  shrine 
And  plant  a  fairer  image  where  it  stood." 

As  the  poet  works  out  his  own  conception  of  the 
nature  of  the  divine  mind,  he  argues  that  mankind 
and  even  the  brutes  have  rights  as  well  as  God.  A 
God  who,  like  the  artist-potter,  fashions  the  clay  upon 
his  wheel,  to  be  broken  or  preserved,  according  to  his 
will,  can  demand  only  such  love  as  the  dead  clay  might 
feel  to  the  hand  that  shapes  it.  By  endowing  man- 
kind and  the  brute  creation  with  life,  God  has  given 
them  rights.  He  cannot  believe  that  God  has  left  the 
human  soul  entirely  a  prey  to  its  own  weakness.  He 
must  believe  that  God, — 

"Is  better  than  our  fears,  and  will  not  wrong 
The  least,  the  meanest  of  created  things." 

Somewhat  sad  are  the  moods  in  which  the  poet 
speaks  of  the  ephemeralness  of  truths,  and  the  per- 
sistence of  a  need  for  idols  to  symbolize  divine  truth. 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      329 

He  is  overwhelmed  for  the  time  with  a  sense  of  human 
limitations. 

This  feeling,  however,  gives  place  to  one  of  belief 
in  humanity  through  the  power  of  love, — a  love  so 
great  that  it  would  long  to  leave  the  bliss  of  heaven 
to  give  a  little  water  to  one  beloved  on  earth  who  had 
yet  missed  eternal  bliss,  and  in  this  realization  of  the 
power  of  human  love  lies  the  assurance  of  a  divine 
love  as  tender  and  compassionate  as  woman's  love, 
long-suffering,  gentle,  ready  to  meet  the  wanderer 
ere  he  reach  the  door  he  seeks,  forgetful  of  his  sin. 

Holmes  was  not  a  believer  in  the  suffrage  for 
women,  yet  in  his  highest  conception  of  God  he 
included  a  love  such  as  belongs  only  to  a  woman's 
heart : 

"Not  from  the  sad-eyed  hermit's  lonely  cell, 
Not  from  the  conclave  where  the  holy  men 
Glare  on  each  other,  as  with  angry  eyes 
They  battle  for  God's  glory  and  their  own, 
Till,  sick  of  wordy  strife,  a  show  of  hands 
Fixes  the  faith  of  ages  yet  unborn, — 
Ah,  not  from  these  the  listening  soul  can  hear 
The  Father's  voice  that  speaks  itself  divine! 
Love  must  be  still  our  Master ;  till  we  learn 
What  he  can  teach  us  of  a  woman's  heart, 
We  know  not  His  Whose  love  embraces  all." 

The  course  of  reasoning  followed  in  this  poem  is 
sufficient  to  prove  that,  of  the  group  of  poets  under 
consideration,  Holmes  was  the  only  one  possessing 
the  modern  scientific  temper.  Fearlessly,  in  the  light 
of  all  scientific  knowledge,  he  seeks  truth  and  arrives, 
not  at  the  materialism,  which  has  been  the  portion  of 


330      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

men  less  endowed  with  emotional  perception  and  a 
sense  of  justice  than  he, — but  at  a  clarified  conception 
of  God  and  religion. 

When  we  place  together  such  poems  as  "Grand- 
mother's Story  of  Bunker  Hill,"  showing  his  dra- 
matic power,  "The  Living  Temple,"  showing  his 
power  of  transmuting  accurate  scientific  knowledge 
into  genuine  poetry,  and  "Wind-Clouds  and  Star- 
Drifts,"  showing  not  only  the  scientific  sweep  of  his 
mind,  but  his  power  of  philosophical  meditation,  we 
are  fairly  startled  by  the  versatility  displayed,  and  can 
but  regret  that  he  was  not  more  loyal  to  his  serious 
muse.  With  such  power,  as  is  shown  in  these  poems, 
at  command,  he  might  have  made  himself  as  unique 
and  as  great  a  poet  as  Robert  Browning.  He  was,  un- 
fortunately, too  close  to  the  Calvinism  he  detested. 
His  new-won  freedom  of  conscience  gave  to  a  social 
life  which  he  might  enjoy  without  fear  of  damnation, 
too  great  a  fascination,  hence  he  will  be  known  as  a 
poet  of  clever  dinner-verses,  instead  of  as  one  who 
could  think  great  thoughts,  portray  life  with  dramatic 
power,  and  draw,  through  his  scientific  knowledge, 
upon  a  new  source  of  metaphor  and  allusion  with 
consummate  power. 

Lowell,  like  Longfellow,  was  farther  removed  from 
Calvinism  than  Holmes,  and,  probably  for  that 
reason,  does  not  express  any  such  rooted  aversion 
to  the  creed  of  his  forefathers  as  Holmes  does. 
Neither,  on  the  other  hand,  does  he  like  churchly  man- 
ifestations of  religion.  His  poem,  "The  Cathedral," 
may  very  fittingly  be  compared  with  "Wind-Clouds 
and  Star-Drifts,"  with  a  view  to  discovering  what 
shades  of  difference  there  were  in  the  religious  atti- 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      331 

tude  of  the  two  poets.  Avowedly  subjective,  as  most 
of  Lowell's  poetry  is,  he  shows  himself  in  this  poem 
to  be  an  intuitionalist.  He  believed  in  a  faculty  which 
makes  man  directly  cognizant  of  the  Divine: 

"This  life  were  brutish  did  we  not  sometimes  Have 
intimations  clear  of  wider  scope,  .  .  .  yearnings 
of  unsullied  desire,  Fruitless,  except  we  now  and  then 
divined  A  mystery  of  Purpose,  gleaming  through  the 
secular  confusions  of  the  world." 

He  declares  that  though  he  still  prays  at  morning 
and  at  evening,  he  does  not  know  which  to  hold  worst 
enemy, — 

"Him  who  on  speculation's  windy  waste 
Would  turn  me  loose,  stript  of  the  raiment  warm 
By  Faith  contrived  against  our  nakedness, 
Or  him  who,  cruel-kind,  would  fain  obscure, 
With  painted  saints  and  paraphrase  of  God, 
The  soul's  east-window  of  divine  surprise. 
Where  others  worship,  I  but  look  and  long; 
For,  though  not  recreant  to  my  fathers'  faith, 
Its  forms  to  me  are  weariness,  and  most 
That  drony  vacuum  of  compulsory  prayer, 
Still  pumping  phrase  for  the  Ineffable, 
Though  all  the  valves  of  memory  gasp  and  wheeze." 

He  perceives,  like  Holmes,  that  each  age  must  wor- 
ship its  own  thought  of  God,  but  he  does  not  go  forth 
upon  the  search  for  his  image  led  by  science.  Where 
Holmes  expresses  faith  in  the  fearless  search  for  the 
truth,  which  he  finally  finds  in  the  human  heart, 
Lowell  sets  up  faith  against  science: 

"Shall  we  treat  Him  as  if  He  were  a  child 
That  knew  not  His  own  purpose?  nor  dare  trust 


332      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

The  Rock  of  Ages  to  their  chemic  tests, 
Lest  some  day  the  all-sustaining  base  divine 
Should  fail  from  under  us,  dissolved  in  gas?" 

In  other  words,  to  Holmes  it  seems  rational  to 
believe  in  God.  Justice  and  love  demand  it.  For 
Lowell,  no  logical  argument  against  the  existence  of 
God  could  shake  his  faith.  By  sympathy  of  nature 
he  declares,  I 

"Have  evidence  of  Thee  so  far  above, 
Yet  in  and  of  me." 

This  is  good  Unitarian  doctrine,  and  proves  that 
Lowell  was  not  at  all  beyond  his  time  in  thought, 
while  Holmes,  in  making  science  the  handmaid  of 
religion,  was  fully  abreast  if  not  ahead  of  his  time. 

Akin  to  Longfellow  in  his  unadventurous,  religious 
thought,  Lowell  was  more  akin  to  Whittier  in  his 
moral  fervor,  expressed  in  his  love  of  the  ideal  of 
freedom  and  of  the  ideal  of  country.  From  this  last 
feeling  was  developed  his  especial  meaning  for  his 
age,  which  was  not  like  Whittier's,  to  be  the  evangel 
of  democracy  in  its  farthest-reaching  aspects,  but  to 
be  the  critic  of  that  country  which  he  loved;  to  hold 
up  to  scorn  and  satire  the  meannesses,  the  low  ideals, 
the  underhanded  policies  which  have  endangered  the 
social  and  political  fabric,  and  to  long  with  intense 
longing  that  his  country  might  have  a  future  made 
noble  by  integrity  of  character  and  beautiful  by 
sincerity  in  art,  without  which,  it  may  be  added, 
Whittier's  most  golden  dreams  of  democracy  and 
Emerson's  most  spiritual  visions  of  freedom  will  ac- 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      333 

complish  no  more  for  humanity  than  the  autocracies 
of  the  past. 

In  Emerson  we  have  the  final  blossom  of  the  spir- 
itual development  of  New  England.  Descended 
from  a  line  of  Unitarian  ministers,  himself  a  Unita- 
rian minister,  his  strongly  individualistic  mind  could 
not  remain  within  the  folds  of  a  flock  even  so  little 
penned  in  as  that  of  this  liberal  church.  In  his  search 
for  knowledge,  the  thought  of  all  idealistic  thinkers 
became  his.  Plato  and  Brahma  were  his  familiar 
spirits,  his  daemons, — while  German  and  French  phi- 
losophers were  the  attendants  upon  the  car  of  his 
Muse.  From  all  of  these  he  took  just  the  nutriment 
best  suited  for  the  development  of  his  own  genius, 
with  the  result  that  in  him  is  most  completely  mani- 
fested the  truth  that  out  of  ethics,  philosophy  and 
science  may  be  fashioned  an  art  which  will  express 
beauty  in  forms  of  the  most  lofty  inspiration. 

Fully  to  understand  what  meaning  Emerson's 
poetry  has,  not  only  for  his  own  land,  but  for  all 
time,  it  will  be  instructive  to  consider  for  a  moment 
some  aspects  of  the  war  which  has  been  waged  for 
many  centuries  between  the  disciples  of  beauty,  based 
upon  emotion,  as  the  sole  element  necessary  to  poetry, 
and  the  defenders  of  ethics,  philosophy  and  latterly 
science,  as  legitimate  ores  from  which  poetry  may  be 
minted. 

Plato,  no  doubt,  thought  he  had  said  the  last  word 
on  the  subject  over  two  thousand  years  ago,  when 
he,  in  a  certain  sense,  combined  the  opposing  elements 
by  declaring  that  poetry  should  deal  only  with  en- 
nobling subjects,  in  order  that  the  youths  should  be 
taught  heroism  and  other  Greek  virtues.  He  would 


334      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

have  turned  Beauty  herself  into  a  bespectacled  mis- 
tress of  ethics,  and  who  would  dare  to  say  that  in 
this  character  she  might  not  bewitch  all  who  gazed 
upon  her? 

Dreary  recollections  of  long-drawn  arguments  on 
this  or  kindred  subjects  haunt  the  waking  hours  of 
those  unnamed  brave  who  have  had  the  courage  to 
explore  the  Sahara  which  so  conspicuously  fills  up  the 
greater  part  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  cen- 
turies in  German  literature. 

One  might  have  thought  that  Goethe,  combining 
in  his  own  intellectual  personality  as  he  did,  both  the 
poetic  and  the  scientific  insight,  might,  like  a  Colossus, 
have  placed  one  foot  on  the  head  of  each  faction 
and  crushed  them  out  forever.  But  not  a  million 
Goethes  could  stamp  out  this  perennially  interesting 
subject  of  discussion;  the  wise  and  the  foolish  of  all 
lands  still  continue  to  hurl  their  weapons  of  wisdom 
into  the  thick  of  the  melee,  and  from  time  to  time  the 
true  poet  comes  in,  like  the  third  dog  in  the  nursery 
tale,  and  carries  off  the  bone. 

No  harmonizing  solution  is  proposed,  but  there  re- 
mains an  unexplained  residuum,  which  will  send  men 
off  forever  on  fresh  phases  of  the  discussion;  just  as 
no  system  of  metaphysics  ever  has  or  ever  will  be 
proposed  which  will  not  leave  some  end  hanging  to 
give  man  for  ages  hence  opportunities  to  formulate 
new  theories. 

To  the  onlooker,  however,  this  battle  between 
Beauty  and,  metaphorically  speaking,  the  Beast,  ap- 
pears rather  as  a  skirmish  of  light  infantry,  than  as 
a  foe-annihilating  cannonade  of  heavy  artillery;  and 
if  only  the  magic  spell  which  the  wicked  fairy,  Prej- 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      335 

udice,  has  cast  upon  the  Beast,  could  be  dispelled, 
Beauty  might  recognize  him  as  her  own  most  worthy 
spouse. 

Those,  perhaps,  come  nearest  to  expressing  a  fun- 
damental truth  who  hold  that  beauty  should  be  the 
aim  of  poetry,  though  they  do  not,  it  is  to  be  feared, 
always  see  the  far-reaching  grasp  of  their  own  state- 
ment; for  is  not  beauty  the  most  inclusive  of  all  ab- 
stractions? Truth  may  be  foul,  body  and  soul;  good- 
ness is  not  necessarily  beautiful  in  body;  but  beauty 
must  be  beautiful,  body  and  soul,  or  it  is  not  entirely 
itself.  But,  though  truth  is  often  relatively  ugly, 
within  it  lie  latent  the  possibilities  of  goodness,  and, 
ultimately,  of  beauty — the  exquisite,  pearly  tints  of 
the  orchid,  the  perfect  form,  are  immanent  in  the  un- 
sightly root. 

Instead  of  declaring,  with  Keats,  that  truth  is 
beauty,  it  is  more  in  harmony  with  the  conception  of 
a  developing  universe  to  say  that  truth  is  everywhere 
in  process  of  becoming  beauty,  and  finally  will  merge 
in  its  "ultimate  prime"  into  the  full  noontide  splen- 
dor of  perfect  beauty  whose  soul  is  love. 

Goodness  shall  also  find  its  completest  blossoming 
in  beauty.  He  is  a  wise  thinker  who  says  that  a  good 
action  is  not  perfectly  moral  until  it  is  perfectly  nat- 
ural, perfectly  spontaneous;  and  consequently,  when 
a  purely  ideal  moral  stage  is  reached,  ethics,  with  its 
rules  leading  to  the  production  of  goodness,  will  dis- 
appear. Beauty  is  indeed  like  the  "Nunpholeptos" 
of  Browning's  poem,  the  white  light  of  the  manifesta- 
tion of  the  absolute,  in  which  converge  the  prismatic 
rays  of  all  other  less  complete  abstractions. 

But  since  the  limited  human  mind  in  its  strivings 


336      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

must  be  debarred  from  attaining  the  white  light  of 
beauty,  how  shall  the  poet  decide  where  lie  the  im- 
bedded seeds  of  beauty,  which  he,  with  his  individual 
apportionment  of  imaginative  power,  is  to  develop? 
This  is  a  point  around  which  the  forces  on  both  sides 
rally  with  renewed  vigor. 

To  refer  again  to  Plato,  in  the  "Laws,"  he  com- 
mends the  Egyptians  for  establishing  laws  of  beauty 
which  for  thousands  of  years  were  religiously  fol- 
lowed, and  suggests  that  it  would  be  a  good  thing 
for  the  Athenians  to  do  likewise ;  but  who  will  not  be 
thankful  that  the  Egyptian  standards  were  not  ac- 
cepted for  all  time,  or  that  Greek  standards  were  not 
conclusive?  Had  the  Egyptian  standards  reigned 
supreme  we  should  never  have  had  the  wondrous  de- 
velopments of  Greek  art;  and  had  the  Greeks  reigned 
supreme,  where  would  have  been  the  marvels  of  the 
Gothic  age?  In  short,  beauty,  in  the  words  of 
George  Eliot's  Guildenstern,  is  "not  a  seedless,  root- 
less flower;  it  has  grown  with  human  growth,  which 
means  the  rising  sun  of  human  struggle,  order,  knowl- 
edge— sense  trained  to  a  fuller  record,  more  exact 
—to  truer  guidance  of  each  passionate  force." 

It  would  be  foolish  to  declare  that  there  is 
any  subject  in  which  an  anointed  poet  may  not 
find  and  draw  forth  into  blossom  the  latent  seed  of 
beauty. 

The  great  world-artist  has  put  beauty  into  myriads 
of  forms  of  inconceivable  variety.  Here  blooms  the 
modest  quaker-lady,  making  spring  fields  bright 
with  its  delicate  hue  caught  from  morning  skies.  It 
has  no  perfume,  no  use, — only  a  dainty  form  and 
color;  but  hard  by,  the  violet,  with  a  deeper  passion 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      337 

lent  it  by  the  purple  glow  of  less  cloudless  skies, 
freights  the  air  with  its  sweet  scent.  Form,  color, 
perfume, — all  lend  their  aid  in  the  production  of  this 
image  of  beauty.  And  far  above  extend  the  shelter- 
ing trees  with  sturdy  trunks  and  knotty  branches, 
with  bark  so  rough  that  quaker-ladies  and  violets 
well  might  shudder  could  they  look  upon  it;  and 
doubtless  they  would  never  realize  that  the  strength 
and  grandeur  of  the  trees  would  not  be  possible 
with  stems  as  soft  and  green  as  theirs.  They  might 
even  doubt  the  beauty  of  the  tree,  for,  with 
their  tiny  vision,  how  could  they  grasp  it  in  its 
entirety? 

The  human  artist,  following  the  bent  of  his  God- 
father, and  in  spite  of  quaker-lady  and  violet  opinion, 
also  puts  beauty  into  many  and  varying  forms.  With 
his  magic  wand,  he  transforms  mere  words  into  lyr- 
ical forms  as  delicate,  as  useless — shall  I  say? — as  al- 
together lovely — and  therefore  not  useless — as  the 
quaker-lady. 

Another  sweep  of  the  wand  and  there  appears  a 
sonnet  laden  with  the  perfume  of  the  deepest,  most 
sacred  passions  of  the  human  heart.  Another,  and  lo ! 
a  mighty  tree,  a  "Prometheus  Unbound,"  whose 
spreading  branches  are  supported  on  the  stout  stem 
of  philosophical  thought,  or  a  "Ring  and  the  Book," 
where  the  play  of  mind  on  mind,  soul  on  soul,  is  the 
sublimated  soil  from  which  the  blossom  of  beauty 
springs. 

With  none  of  these  manifestations  of  beauty  are 
we  willing  to  part,  nor  are  disparaging  comparisons 
between  them  possible.  Behold  in  each  and  every  case 
a  mystery  not  to  be  fathomed.  Wherever  beauty  is, 


338      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

there  has  a  spark  of  Infinity  been  given  visible  sem- 
blance. 

The  real  soul  of  a  work  of  art  is  not  dependent 
on  the  thought,  the  goodness,  the  truth,  the  metaphys- 
ics, the  ethics,  or  the  lack  of  all  these  which  the  poet 
puts  into  it,  any  more  than  the  beauty  of  a  statue  de- 
pends upon  the  raw  material  of  which  it  is  made.  The 
materials,  whatever  they  are,  are  but  means  to  an 
end;  and  all  materials  supplied  by  Nature,  whether 
of  the  emotions,  the  intellect  or  the  mind,  may  con- 
tribute to  artistic  expression,  the  end  of  which  is 
beauty. 

The  only  test  of  whether  the  poet  has  succeeded  in 
combining  those  materials  with  which  he  has  chosen 
to  body  forth  his  conception  into  an  image  of  beauty, 
is  the  recognition  of  an  intangible  something  which, 
when  the  reader  reads,  makes  his  blood  flow  quickly 
and  the  inexplicable  sensation,  which  is  called  delight, 
suffuse  his  being.  To  some,  doubtless,  only  the 
quaker-ladies  and  violets  of  poetry  give  pleasure,— 
that  is  all  of  beauty  to  which  they  respond;  but  there 
are  others  whose  emotions  thrill  upon  the  perusal  of 
a  consciously  philosophical  poem,  like,  for  example, 
"The  Sun,"  in  "Ferishtah's  Fancies,"— not  because 
of  the  beauty  of  the  truth  contained  in  it,  but  because 
out  of  the  materials  chosen  the  poet  has  moulded 
images  of  beauty.  As  Emerson  says,  "The  laws  of 
this  translation  we  do  not  know,  or  why  one  feature 
or  gesture  enchants,  why  one  word  or  syllable  intoxi- 
cates ;  but  the  fact  is  familiar  that  the  fine  touch  of  the 
eye,  or  a  grace  of  manners,  or  a  phrase  of  poetry, 
plants  wings  at  our  shoulders;  as  if  Divinity,  in  his 
approaches,  lifts  away  mountains  of  obstruction,  and 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      339 

deigns  to  draw  a  truer  line,  which  the  mind  knows  and 


owns." 


No  more  interesting  example  could  be  found  as  an 
illustration  of  the  truth  of  the  foregoing  suggestions 
than  the  poetry  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  He  was 
a  passionate  lover  of  beauty,  which  he  called  the 
"most  enduring  quality  and  the  most  ascending  qual- 
ity ...  the  pilot  of  the  young  soul": 

"Whom  the  Infinite  One 
Has  granted  His  throne." 

Though  he  attempts  no  definition  of  beauty, 
warned,  as  he  says,  by  the  ill-fate  of  many  philoso- 
phers who  had  essayed  its  definition,  his  conception 
of  beauty  is  deep  and  far-reaching.  It  must  be  or- 
ganic, not  external ;  the  form  which  beauty  takes  must 
be  the  natural  result  of  a  beautiful  conception,  and 
the  measure  of  beauty  depends  upon  its  suggestion 
of  brotherhood  with  the  universal,  for  "all  beauty 
points  at  identity.  .  .  .  Into  every  beautiful  ob- 
ject there  enters  somewhat  immeasurable  and  divine, 
and  just  as  much  into  form  bounded  by  outlines,  like 
mountains  on  the  horizon,  as  into  tones  of  music  or 
depths  of  space." 

Upon  this  view  the  poet  becomes  not  so  much  a 
conscious  fashioner  as  an  inspired  singer,  in  whose 
ear  "God  whispers,"  and  the  result  is  a  poem  which 
unfolds  itself  as  naturally  as  a  flower  into  its  appro- 
priate form  of  beauty. 

The  office  of  the  poet  is,  in  Emerson's  opinion,  the 
most  exalted  among  those  in  the  gift  of  the  Muses. 
"He  is  the  healthy,  the  wise,  the  fundamental,  the 


340      THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

manly  man,  seer  of  the  secret;  against  all  the  ap- 
pearance, he  sees  and  reports  the  truth,  namely,  that 
the  soul  generates  matter."  Not  only  then  must  the 
poet  be  a  philosopher  in  the  vague,  general  sense  in 
which  the  term  is  used,  he  must  be  an  idealistic  phi- 
losopher; the  "ineffable  mysteries  of  the  intellect," 
wherein  is  reached  the  loftiest  pinnacle  to  which 
beauty  may  attain,  must  be  his  exalted  theme. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  this  is  a  noble  conception 
of  the  poet's  office ;  yet  one  cannot  but  see  that  it  is,  in 
a  certain  sense,  limited  by  Emerson's  own  vision. 
Poets  are  no  longer  members  of  a  struggling  human- 
ity who  catch  occasional  glimpses  of  celestial  splen- 
dor; indeed,  his  poet  is  an  image  of  Divinity  itself. 
There  seems  to  be  little  room  in  his  mind  for  the  poet 
whose  function  has  been  to  polish  but  a  facet  of  the 
rough  truth  in  the  infinite  gem  of  beauty;  thus  he 
can  find  it  in  his  heart  to  complain  that,  "Homer, 
Milton,  Shakespeare  do  not  fully  content  us.  How 
rarely  they  offer  us  the  heavenly  bread!  The  most 
they  have  done  is  to  intoxicate  us  again  and  again 
with  its  taste." 

The  poetry  of  Emerson  naturally  reflects  his  con- 
victions in  regard  to  the  poet.  His  idealistic  philos- 
ophy is  the  very  body  of  it.  Consciously  he  sets  out 
to  translate  "God's  whispers"  into  messages,  audible 
to  the  rest  of  mankind,  and  according  to  the  followers 
of  Milton's  wornout  saying,  that  poetry  should  be 
simple,  sensuous,  and  passionate,  one  should  be  pre- 
pared to  find  this  philosophical  poetry  dull  stuff.  Yet, 
those  who  find  it  otherwise  may  also  claim  Milton  on 
their  side,  for  in  one  of  the  loveliest  of  his  own  poems, 
"Comus,"  he  declares: 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      341 

"How  charming  is  divine  philosophy; 
Not  harsh  and  crabbed,  as  dull  fools  suppose, 
But  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute." 

If  this  had  been  an  a  priori  statement  of  Milton's, 
awaiting  proof,  no  more  convincing  proof  could  have 
arisen  than  the  poetry  of  Emerson.  It  matters  not 
whether  his  philosophy  was  intuitional  or  the  result  of 
slowly  acquired  knowledge  (probably  he  did  not 
know  himself  how  much  of  it  could  be  explained  by 
natural  mental  processes),  the  fact  remains,  that  it 
ought  to  silence  all  carpers  against  philosophy  in 
poetry, — that  Emerson  took  it  for  his  main  theme, 
and  draped  it  in  such  imagery  as  has  fallen  to  the  lot 
of  few  themes  in  poetry. 

That  a  beautiful  conception  finds  its  appropriate 
expression  not  only  in  the  spontaneity  of  its  imagery, 
but  in  that  of  its  rhyme  and  rhythm,  was  Emerson's 
belief.  He  says,  speaking  of  melody,  rhyme  and 
form,  "The  difference  between  poetry  and  stock 
poetry  is  this,  that  in  the  latter  the  rhythm  is  given 
and  the  sense  adapted  to  it;  while  in  the  former  the 
sense  dictates  the  rhythm;  I  might  even  say  that  the 
rhyme  is  there  in  the  theme,  thought,  and  image  them- 
selves. .  .  .  The  verse  must  be  alive  and  in- 
separable from  its  contents,  as  the  soul  of  man  in- 
spires and  directs  the  body." 

Upon  this  theory  Emerson  wrote  his  poetry;  and, 
while  in  many  cases  the  result  is  satisfactory,  there  are 
others  where,  in  spite  of  poetical  figures,  the  expres- 
sion is  sadly  marred  through  awkward  rhyming  and 
clumsy  rhythm.  Emerson  himself  would  most  likely 
have  laid  the  blame  upon  the  thought;  for,  with  his 


342      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

supreme  reliance  upon  intuition,  he  seems,  like  most 
idealists,  to  be  blind  to  the  opposite  aspects  of  things. 
Doubtless  a  beautiful  conception  must  be  in  the  mind 
of  a  painter  before  he  can  produce  a  beautiful  picture, 
but  what  would  become  of  his  picture  if  he  were  not 
acquainted  with  the  laws  of  perspective?  "God's 
whispers"  may  be  His  supreme  marks  of  favor  to  His 
chosen  few;  but  He  has  given  an  inheritance  of  intel- 
lect to  mankind  which  even  the  favored  should  not 
overlook  in  the  light  of  His  higher  gifts.  A  poet 
should  surely  fashion  his  intuitions  in  the  sunlight  of 
his  knowledge.  The  Divine  gift  is  given  that  the 
Divine  inheritance  may  exert  its  functions  to  the  ut- 
termost, never  as  master,  but  as  faithful  servant. 

Though  we  may  doubt  that  a  fine  thought  always 
naturally  finds  its  most  appropriate  expression  with- 
out any  conscious  manipulation  on  the  part  of  the 
poet,  Emerson  certainly  possessed  the  knack,  to  an 
uncommon  degree,  of  presenting  his  thought  in  won- 
derfully beautiful  and  appropriate  language. 

In  the  closing  passage  of  "Wood-Notes,"  part  of 
which  has  already  been  quoted,  is  a  superb  example 
of  the  characteristic  intensity  with  which  he  makes 
a  great  thought  flash  into  being.  Here  he  describes 
the  march  of  evolution,  not  from  the  standpoint  of 
the  scientist,  who  sees  only  the  blind,  inevitable  forces 
of  nature,  but  from  the  secret  chamber  of  the  idealist, 
who  sees  it  as  the  constant,  changing  aspect  of  the 
eternal  mind: 

"From  form  to  form  he  maketh  haste; 
This  vault  which  glows  immense  with  light 
Is  the  inn  where  he  lodges  for  the  night. 


THE   POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      343 

What  recks  such  Traveller  if  the  bowers 

Which  bloom  and  fade  like  meadow  flowers 

A  bunch  of  fragrant  lilies  be, 

Or  the  stars  of  eternity? 

Alike  to  him  the  better  the  worse, — 

The  glowing  angel,  the  outcast  corse. 

Thou  metest  him  by  centuries, 

And  lo !  he  passes  like  the  breeze ; 

Thou  seekest  in  globe  and  galaxy, 

He  hides  in  pure  transparency; 

Thou  askest  in  fountains  and  in  fires, 

He  is  the  essence  that  inquires." 

The  beauty  of  this  passage  is  irresistible.  We  seem 
to  feel  the  rush  of  the  world-spirit  through  our  own 
being  in  its  inexorable  flight  into  Eternity.  If  there 
is  any  criticism  to  be  made,  one  would  not  pick  on 
faulty  rhymes,  or  halting  lines,  for  any  such  are  lost 
in  the  cumulative  effect,  which  is  striking;  one  would 
rather  find  some  lack  of  warmth  in  the  conception. 
After  all,  the  world-spirit  as  represented  by  Emer- 
son, is  strikingly  like  the  scientist's  persistent  energy. 
It  recks  not  whether  stars  be  stars,  or  flowers,  flowers ; 
alike  to  him  the  "glowing  angel  and  the  outcast 
corse."  There  is  no  hint  that  love  is  the  ruling  im- 
pulse of  this  mind.  Its  conditions  are  but  appear- 
ances; in  its  essence,  it  is  unconditioned, — a  being 
which  it  makes  the  mind  ache  to  think  of.  Just  the 
touch  lacking  in  this  poem  is  added  by  Browning, 
when  he  speaks  in  "Paracelsus": 


'How  God  tastes  an  infinite  joy 

In  infinite  ways — one  everlasting  bliss 


344      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

From  whom  all  being  emanates,  all  power 
Proceeds :  in  whom  is  life  f orevermore  !" 

But  warmth  is  not  an  attribute  of  Emerson's 
poetry.  It  sparkles,  rather,  with  the  beauty  of  stars 
on  a  winter  night. 

Love  is  lifted  by  him  into  this  same  rarefied  at- 
mosphere ;  where,  though  the  flame  is  pure  and  clear, 
it  has  not  much  tenderness : 

"Higher  far  into  the  pure  realm 
Over  sun  and  star, 
Over  the  flickering  Daemon  film, 
Thou  must  mount  for  love." 

If  his  failures  in  rhyme,  and  his  sometimes  monot- 
onous metre,  seem  to  militate  against  Emerson's  own 
theory  in  regard  to  verse,  when  he  essayed  blank  verse 
the  organity  of  his  thought  with  that  form  of  ex- 
pression receives  justification.  Then  his  high,  pure 
thoughts  flow  forth  without  let  or  hindrance,  his  won- 
drous tropes  are  not  marred  by  the  exigencies  of 
lines  upon  which  the  rhyming  axe  comes  down  with 
fatal  regularity.  "The  Sea  Shore"  has  already  been 
instanced  as  a  fine  example  of  Emerson's  blank  verse, 
and  was  there  ever  a  more  exquisite  bit  than  the  little 
poem  called  "Days"!  "Musketaquid"  is  another  of 
his  perfect  poems.  What  exquisite  turns  of  expres- 
sion, and  dainty  alliteration  in  the  opening  lines  of 
this  poem.  Take  these,  for  instance: 

"For  me,  in  showers,  in  sweeping  showers,  the  Spring 
Visits  the  valley ; — break  away  the  clouds, — 
I  bathe  in  the  morn's  soft  and  silvered  air, 
And  loiter  willing  by  yon  loitering  stream. 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      345 

Sparrows  far  off,  and  nearer  April's  bird, 
Blue-coated, — flying  from  tree  to  tree, 
Courageous  sing  a  delicate  overture 
To  lead  the  tardy  concert  of  the  year." 

The  simplest  commonplaces  of  Nature  were  turned 
by  Emerson's  heavenly  alchemy  into  beauteous  pic- 
tures; for,  let  him  go  where'er  he  would,  he  heard 
"a  sky-born  music  still,"  like  the  poet  he  describes: 

"The  free  winds  told  him  what  they  knew, 
Discoursed  of  fortune  as  they  blew; 
Omens  and  signs  that  fill  the  air 
To  him,  authentic  witness  bare." 

As  hinted  before,  the  very  loftiness  of  Emerson's 
conception  of  poetry  limits  his  range.  It  is  the  uni- 
versal, all-embracing  truths  that  the  poet  is  to  sing. 
But  to  give  the  most  vivid  impressions  of  great  uni- 
versal truths,  grand  generalizations  alone  will  not 
suffice;  it  is  necessary  to  have  clear  pictures  of  in- 
numerable, distinct  phases  of  human  experience,  such 
as  the  dramatic  poet  offers.  Universality  is  made 
most  apparent  through  the  contrasting  of  many  in- 
dividualities. Unlike  Whitman,  who  was  overmas- 
tered by  the  idea  of  the  equal  and  exalted  importance 
of  every  individual  manifestation,  Emerson  was  so 
overmastered  by  the  general,  universal  relations  ex- 
isting among  all  phenomena  of  mind  and  matter  that 
the  particular  or  special  relations  between  groups  of 
phenomena  and  the  importance  of  the  individual  are 
passed  over.  He  sits  on  high  like  the  Hindoo  Brah- 
ma, the  tide  of  the  downward  flow  of  Nature  from 
the  Godhead,  with  all  its  various  and  intricate  mani- 


346      THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND 

festations,  has  turned,  and  all  Nature  is  again  being 
absorbed  into  the  Divine  spirit. 

The  human  struggles  and  aspirations  of  men  and 
women  do  not  interest  him;  all  Nature  is  lovely,— 

"But  man  crouches  and  blushes, 

Absconds  and  conceals ; 
He  creepeth  and  peepeth, 

He  palters  and  steals ; 
Infirm,  melancholy, 

Jealous,  glancing  around, 
An  oaf,  an  accomplice, 

He  poisons  the  ground." 

Though  the  poet  knows  that  "Deep  love  lieth  under 
these  pictures  of  time,"  and  that  "They  fade  in  the 
light  of  their  meaning  sublime,"  he  is  better  contented 
not  to  dwell  upon  man  in  his  oaf -like  aspect.  Though 
he  finds  that  in  the  "mud  and  scum  of  things  there 
alway,  alway  something  sings,"  he  prefers  to  contem- 
plate beauty  in  perfection,  rather  than  in  the  half- 
tints  of  beauty  he  could  find  among  the  haunts  of  men. 

He  bids  farewell  to  the  proud  world,  with  its  love 
and  pride  of  man,  the  sophist  schools,  the  learned 
clans, — 

"For  what  are  they  all  in  their  high  conceit, 
When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may  meet?" 

So  he  returns  ever  to  Nature.  The  ineffable  mys- 
teries of  the  intellect  he  does  not  seem  to  find  among 
his  fellow  men;  he  looks  forward  to  them  in  the  man 
of  whom  Nature  sings  to  him  in  her  song, — a  man 
"the  sunburnt  world"  shall  breed  "Of  all  the  zones 
and  countless  days." 


THE  POETS'  NEW  ENGLAND      347 

We  find  that  the  realm  of  beauty  over  which  Em- 
erson holds  sway,  like  those  of  his  brother  poets,  has 
boundaries,  yet  within  those  boundaries  is  a  magic 
garden,  where  leaf  and  twig  are  instinct  with  auroral 
light.  He  casts  his  mystic  glamor  on  land  and  sea, 
and  we  feel  ourselves  touched  for  brief,  sweet  mo- 
ments with  the  poet's  own  imaginative  vision;  we, 
too,  can  exclaim  with  him,  "My  books  and  chair 
and  candlestick  are  fairies  in  disguise,  meteors  and 
constellations." 


THE  END 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Acadia  in  Maine,  127,  129. 
Agamenticus,  6,  63,  81. 
Agassiz,  286,  287. 
Agioochook,  63. 
Algonquins,  79,  80,  81. 
Amesbury,  6,  8,  9,  257. 
Annexation  of  Texas,  185. 
Anti-Slavery  agitation,  The,  169- 

205. 
Appledore,  62. 

Basin  of  Minas,  127. 

Beacon  Street,  36,  38. 

Berkshire  County,  21. 

Berkshire  Hills,  23,  53. 

Block  Island,  112,  113. 

Boar's  Head,  57. 

Boston,  36,  41,  120,  121,  129,  147, 
148,  171,  220,  222. 

Boston  Common,  157. 

Boston  mob,  172. 

Brattle  Street,  48. 

Bryant  and  the  American  Rev- 
olution, 149-50;  and  the  Civil 
War,  216,  217,  219;  and  Lowell: 
criticalness  in  regard  to  each 
other,  250-252;  and  the  sea, 
60-2;  belief  in  future  life,  298; 
conception  of  freedom,  301; 
consciousness  of  the  atmos- 
phere in,  27;  effect  of  Puri- 
tanic inheritance  on  his 
thought,  295;  flowers  in,  29, 
30;  generalizing  descriptions, 
22-26;  influence  of  upon  Long- 
fellow, 248-250;  interest  in 
death  tempered  by  his  joy  in 
the  life  of  Nature,  296,  298; 
joyousness  in,  28;  pantheistic 
conception  of  Nature,  20,  27; 
poems  mentioned  or  quoted — 
"Castles  in  the  Air,"  299; 
"Crowded  Street,  The,"  300; 
"Cummington  Revisited,"  23, 
24 ;  "  Death  of  the  Flowers, "  30 ; 
"Death  of  Slavery,  The,"  216; 
"Forest  Hymn,  A,"  297;  "Fu- 
ture Life,  The,"  298,  301; 
"Green  River,"  21;  "Hymn  to 
Death,"  297,  298;  "Hymn  to  the 
Sea,"  61;  "Life  That  Is,  The," 

351 


301;  "Lines  to  a  Waterfowl," 
31;  "Little  People  of  the  Snow," 
92,  300;  "Monument  Moun- 
tain," 21,  22;  "Nature  Song," 
24,  25;  "October,"  301;  "Our 
Country's  Call,"  216;  "Prairies, 
The,"  35;  "Return  of  the 
Birds,"  32;  "Sella,"  92,  299; 
"Seventy-Six,"  149,  150;  "Song 
of  the  Stars,"  28;  "Song  Spar- 
row, The,"  32,  33;  "Tale  of 
Cloudland,  A,"  299;  "Tides, 
The,"  62;  "Thanatopsis,"  296; 
sentiency  of  Nature  in,  24-27; 
seventieth  birthday,  253,  254; 
stars  and  clouds  the  inspira- 
tion of  his  most  delicate  fan- 
cies, 299,  300;  thought  in,  295- 
302;  use  of  Indian  lore,  77,  90- 
92;  vagueness  of  his  Nature 
descriptions,  18. 
Bunker  Hill,  146,  150. 

Caleb  Gushing,  199. 

Cambridge,    36,   41,   46,   48,    228, 

258,  278. 
Cape  Ann,   6,   60,   110,  111,  112, 

118. 

Casco  Bay,  81. 

Cassandia  Southwick,  118,  120. 
Celebration  by  the  Burns  Club, 

236. 

Charles,  8,  36,  41,  47,  48,  49,  54. 
Charlestown,  152. 
Chocorua,  6. 
Coffin,    Joshua,    described    in 

"Snow  Bound,"  312. 
Concord,  145,  147,  149,  158,  160, 

228,  279. 

Concord  mob,  173. 
Concord    River     (Musketaquid), 

161. 

Con  way,  138. 
Cotton  Mather,  101,  102,  110,  112, 

115,  297. 

Craigie  House,  41. 
Cummington,  20,  21,  31,  90. 
Cummington    and  western    Mas- 
sachusetts, 20-26. 

Danvers,  110,  122. 
Dover,  122. 


352 


INDEX 


Effect  of  childhood  environment 
on  the  poet's  work,  53. 

Eggemoggin  Reach,  94. 

"Elmwood,"  41,  43,  45,  46,  47. 

Emerson  and  the  American  Rev- 
olution, 145,  146-149;  and  the 
Civil  War,  216-221;  and  Lin- 
coln in  conference,  220;  and 
Nature,  65;  and  the  sea,  68; 
appreciation  of  Burns,  236,  238 ; 
blossom  of  New-England  spirit- 
ual development,  333;  com- 
pared with  Browning,  343-4; 
described  by  Holmes,  228-9;  de- 
scribed by  Longfellow,  228;  de- 
scribed by  Lowell,  236,  284; 
aloof,  yet  friend  of  all,  278; 
lack  of  warmth  in  his  philo- 
sophical conceptions,  218,  344; 
love  lifted  by  him  into  a  rare- 
fied atmosphere,  344;  lover  of 
abstract  beauty,  339;  mystic 
love  of  Nature,  342,  346;  on 
Webster,  243;  opinion  of  the 
office  of  poet,  339-40;  poems 
mentioned  or  quoted — "Adiron- 
dacks,  The,"  286,  287;  "Bos- 
ton," 147,  148,  149;  "Celestial 
Love,"  344;  "Concord  Hymn," 
145;  "Days,"  285,  344;  "Mo- 
nadnoc,"  66,  67;  "Musketa- 
quid,"  65,  66,  344,  345;  "Poet, 
The,"  345;  "Seashore,"  69,  70, 
344;  "Woodnotes,"  65,  67,  342, 
343;  "Snowstorm,  The,"  308; 
"Voluntaries,"  217,  218;  poetry 
reflects  his  artistic  and  philo- 
sophical attitude,  340-345; 
praises  "The  Washers  of  the 
Shroud,"  286;  thought  in,  333- 
347 ;  Emerson's  philosophy  not 
understood  by  Longfellow,  229. 

Everett,  22. 

Garrison  and  Whittler,  175. 
Garrison,  Wm.  Lloyd,  169. 
Garrison,  mobbed,  172. 
Gaspereau,  127. 
General  Moulton,  115,  116. 
Gloucester,  112. 
Graylock,  22,  53. 
Great  Barrington,  23. 
Green  River,  23. 

Hampshire  County,  21. 
Hampton,  6,  57,  106,  115,  122. 
Hampton  River,  57. 
Harvard,  41,  64,  214,  274. 


Haverhill,  6,  8,  9,  11,  114. 

Haverhill  and  New  England 
scenery,  6-20. 

Hiawatha  legends  and  their 
sources,  78-81. 

Holmes  and  the  American  Revo- 
lution, 150-157;  and  the  Civil 
War,  221,  222;  and  the  Charles 
River,  36;  and  the  sea,  64;  ap- 
preciative of  Emerson's  verse, 
282;  Atlantic  breakfast  to,  246, 
247;  criticises  "Vision  of  Sir 
Launfal,"  268;  departu  e  from 
the  Calvinism  of  his  ancestors, 
323,  324;  describes  Longfellow, 
273;  home  in  Pittsfield,  53; 
lack  of  sympathy  with  Emer- 
son's philosophy,  281;  letters  to 
Lowell,  abroad,  271;  in  his 
study,  surrounded  by  remind- 
ers of  Lowell,  272;  modern  sci- 
entific note  in  his  poems,  324- 
330;  not  as  great  a  poet  as  he 
was  capable  of  being,  330; 
poems  mentioned  or  quoted — 
"Ballad  of  the  Boston  Tea  Par- 
ty, A,"  150,  154,  156;  "At  the 
Saturday  Club,"  231,  232,  233, 
287;  "Cambridge,"  154;  "Fare- 
well to  J.  R.  Lowell,"  239-40; 
"For  W  h  i  1 1  i  e  r's  Seventieth 
Birthday,"  244,  245;  "Grand- 
mother's Story  of  Bunker  Hill," 
150,  152,  153;  "Mind's  Diet, 
The,"  325;  "Last  Leaf,  The," 
155-156;  "Lexington,"  154,  157; 
"Living  Temple,  The,"  324-5, 
330;  "Modest  Request,  A,"  322- 
323;  "Hymn,"  222;  "My  Avi- 
ary," 37;  "Memory  of  Burns, 
The,"  238;  "Poet  at  the  Break- 
fast Table,  The,"  325;  "Picture 
of  Boston  Common,"  157; 
"Spring  Has  Come,"  40;  "To 
H.  W.  Longfellow,"  246; 
"Sweet  Little  Man,"  222;  "Un- 
der Washington's  Elm,"  154; 
"W ind-Clouds  and  Star- 
Drifts,"  325,  326-330;  praise  of 
Whittier,  262,  263;  recorder  of 
the  normal  social  and  public 
life  of  New  England,  321-323; 
thought,  in,  321-330;  use  of  In- 
dian lore,  77;  writes  life  of 
Emerson,  281,  282;  writes  to 
Norton  of  the  stimulation  he 
had  received  from  Lowell,  267. 


INDEX 


353 


Holyoke,  22. 

Homes  of  Longfellow  and  Low- 
ell, 41-2,  48-9. 
Hotel  Brunswick,  240. 

Ipswich,  6. 
Iroquois,  79,  80. 
Isle  au  Haut,  94. 
Isles  of  Shoals,  59,  62. 

Kearsarge,  63. 

Ladies  at  an  Atlantic  dinner,  235. 

Lake  Superior,  79. 

Lexington,  145,  149. 

Livermore,  Harriet,  described  in 
"Snow  Bound,"  312. 

Longfellow  and  the  American 
Revolution,  150,  151;  and  the 
Charles,  36,  42;  and  the  Civil 
War,  221;  and  Lowell  in  the 
Dante  Club,  277;  and  Lowell, 
their  intimacy,  274-277;  and 
the  sea,  54-5;  enthusiasm  for 
Emerson's  poetic  faculty,  280; 
farewell  dinner  to,  at  Field's, 
246;  feeling  for  art,  319;  feel- 
ing for  Nature  in  his  letters 
and  diary,  56;  festival  of  school 
children  in  his  honor,  246;  fre- 
quent mentions  of  Lowell  in  his 
diary,  276;  poems  mentioned 
or  quoted — "Christus:  A  Mys- 
tery," 97;  "Christus,"  317; 
"Courtship  of  Miles  Standish, 
The,"  136;  "Epimetheus,"  320; 
"Evangeline,"  126;  "Fire  of 
Driftwood,"  137;  "John  Endi- 
cott,"  98,  121,  122;  "Lady 
Wentworth,"  123-26;  "Michael 
Angelo,"  320;  "New  England 
Tragedies,  The,"  98;  "Paul  Re- 
vere's  Ride,"  150;  "Promethe- 
us," 320;  "Rhyme  of  St.  Chris- 
topher, The,"  123,  126;  "Saint 
John  Wandering  Over  the 
Face  of  the  Earth,"  318,  319; 
"Skeleton  in  Armor,"  93,  94; 
"Songo  River,"  50;  "Sound  of 
the  Sea,  The,"  55;  "Summer 
Day  by  the  Sea,  A,"  55;  "Tales 
of  the  Wayside  Inn,"  123; 
"Thanksgiving,"  248;  "Two 
Angels,  The,"  276;  "Tides, 
The,"  56;  "To  the  River 
Charles,"  42;  product  of  the 
gentlest  New  England  influ- 


ences, 321;  Quaker  persecution 
and  witch  persecution  in,  97-8; 
romances  of  Colonial  times, 
123-126,  136,  137,  139-41;  ro- 
mantic rather  than  academic, 
316,  317;  thought  in,  314-321; 
Unitarianism  of,  315,  316;  use 
of  Indian  lore,  77,  78-81. 
Lowell:  Akin  to  Longfellow  in 
his  unadventurous  religious 
thought,  332;  akin  to  Whittier 
in  moral  fervor,  332;  amends 
to  Bryant  for  early  criticism, 
252-253;  and  the  American 
Revolution,  157-168;  and  the 
Charles,  45-8;  and  the  sea,  62- 
4;  and  Emerson  in  Concord, 
283;  and  Holmes:  fondness  for 
cattle  shows,  272;  and  Holmes, 
friendly  criticisms  of  each 
other,  267-271;  and  Holmes  in 
their  relations  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  266-7;  and  Holmes: 
their  religious  attitude  com- 
pared, 331;  appreciation  of 
Emerson,  236;  appreciation  of 
Longfellow's  verse,  277;  appre- 
ciation of  Nature  compared 
with  Longfellow's,  43-4;  appre- 
ciation of  Whittier,  185-6; 
brings  forward  Holmes  as  a 
prose  writer,  266,  267;  dinner 
In  honor  of  seventieth  birth- 
day, 239-240;  farewell  dinner, 
239;  early  defense  of  Longfel- 
low against  The  Standard, 
274;  enthusiasm  over  Emer- 
son's speaking,  284;  failure 
fully  to  appreciate  Emerson's 
poetry,  284-285;  fondness  for 
trees,  50-2;  good  Unitarian, 
332;  high  estimation  of  Whit- 
tier as  poet  and  man,  257;  im- 
pressed by  Emerson's  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  addresses,  282,  284; 
meaning  for  his  age,  332-3; 
poems  mentioned  or  quoted — 
"Biglow  Papers,"  192,  193; 
"Birch,  The,"  52;  "Birdofree- 
dum  Sawin"  (Biglow  Pa- 
pers), 195,  196,  197,  198,  206; 
"Cathedral,  The,"  330,  331, 
332 ;  conversation  between 
Concord  Bridge  and  Bunker 
Hill  Monument  (Biglow  Pa- 
pers), 207;  "Fable  for  Critics," 
251-2,  284,  285;  "Graves  of  the 


354 


INDEX 


British  Soldiers,  The,"  158; 
Hosea's  verses  (Biglow  Pa- 
pers), 193,  194,  207,  208,  210, 
215;  imaginary  notices  of  the 
press  (Biglow  Papers),  204, 
205;  "Indian  Summer  Reverie, 
An,"  46;  "Memorial  Odes," 
158-168;  "Ode,"  146,  149;  "Ode 
for  July  Fourth,  1876,"  165, 
166,  167,  168;  "Ode  for  the 
One  Hundredth  Anniversary 
of  the  Concord  Fight,"  159, 
160,  161,  162;  "Ode  for  Wash- 
ington's Birthday,"  154;  "On 
Board  the  '76,"  253,  254;  "Pic- 
tures from  Appledore,"  62,  63, 
64;  "Rallying  Cry  for  New 
England,"  185,  192;  "Remarks 
of  Increase  D.  O'Phase,  Es- 
quire" (Biglow  Papers),  200; 
"Remarks  of  Mr.  Wilbur" 
(Biglow  Papers) ,  202,  203,  204 ; 
"Sonnet  to  Whittier,"  257-8; 
"To  a  Pine  Tree  on  Mount 
Katahdin,"  50;  "Under  the  Old 
Elm,"  162,  163,  164;  "Under 
the  Willows,"  44-8;  "Voyage  to 
Vinland,"  95-7;  "Washers  of 
the  Shroud,  The,"  212,  213, 
214;  "What  Mr.  Robinson 
Thinks"  (Biglow  Papers),  199; 
praises  Emerson's  "Days,"  285; 
thought  in,  330-333;  unveils 
bust  of  Longfellow  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  277;  use  of  In- 
dian lore,  77,  78;  visits  to 
Whittier,  256,  257;  writes 
Longfellow  of  his  election  to 
La  Real  Academia  Espaniola, 
276;  youthful  criticism  of  Em- 
erson, 283. 

Lowell,  Charles  Russell,  211. 

Lowell,  James  Jackson,  211. 


Mad  River,  49. 

Marblehead,  118,  137,  138. 

Marblehead  and  the  Ireson  epi- 
sode, 137-8. 

Merrimac,  8,  9,  10,  11,  12,  13,  14, 
87,  88,  90,  93,  103,  118,  122, 
257. 

Metawampe,  22. 

Mississippi,  56. 

Monadnock,  67. 

Morton  of  Merrymount,  126. 

Monument  Mountain,  23,  53. 

Mount  Auburn  Cemetery,  49. 


Mount  Auburn  Street,  48. 
Mount  Katahdin,  50,  52. 
Musketaquid,  8,  65. 

Nantucket,  119. 

Newburyport,  6. 

New  England  scenery,  3-5. 

New  England  thought:    different 

elements,  293-295. 
New  Haven,  112. 
Newport,  93,  94. 
Norembega,  94. 
Norse  traditions,  92-7. 

Origin  of  the  robin,  77. 

Orr's  Island,  112,  114. 

Ossipee,  63. 

Other  friends  of  the  poets,  286. 

"Parker's,"  232,  233. 

Passaconaway,  88. 

Pemaquid,  6,  127,  129,  133. 

Pemaquid:  its  relation  to  Aca- 
dian history,  127-136. 

Penobscot,  94. 

Phantom  ships,  112. 

Philosophy  and  beauty  in  poetry, 
333-339. 

Piscataqua  River,  82. 

Pittsfield,  53. 

Pleasant  Valley,  103. 

Plainfield,  31. 

Plymouth,  136. 

Poets  at  the  Atlantic  dinners, 
233-235. 

Poets  at  the  Saturday  Club,  230- 
234. 

Portland,  54. 

Portsmouth,  62,  124. 

Public   Garden  in  spring,   38-40. 

Putnam,  William  Lowell,  211. 

Quakers    and    Unitarians    com- 
pared, 315. 
Quebec,  130. 

Revere  House,  239. 
Rockport,  60. 

Saco,  138. 

"Saga  of  Eric  the  Red,"  95. 
Salem,  89,  120,  121,  126. 
Salisbury,  10,  57,  59,  122. 
Sandwich  Notch,  14. 
Sebago  Lake,  49,  81,  82. 
Second   epoch  of  American   his- 
tory, 145-168. 


INDEX 


355 


Snow  Hill,  122. 
Songo  River,  49. 
Sources    of    New    England    ro- 
mance, 75-7. 
Squando,  82-7. 
St.  John,  130. 

Thachers  Island,  60. 
Tom,  22. 

Treatment  of  war  subjects  by  the 
poets  compared,  222-224. 

Underwood's  account  of  an  At- 
lantic dinner,  287. 

Uplifting  influence  of  the  life 
and  work  of  the  elder  Ameri- 
can poets,  289. 

War  with  Mexico,  192,  193,  200. 

Westfield,  21. 

Whittier:  Admiration  of  Emer- 
son, 279;  admiration  of  Long- 
fellow's work,  260;  and  the 
American  Revolution,  146, 
150;  and  the  Anti-Slavery 
movement,  169-191;  and  Bry- 
ant compared,  20;  and  the 
Civil  War,  188-191;  and  Garri- 
son: difference  of  view,  176; 
and  Holmes:  special  liking  be- 
tween them,  261-265;  and 
Holmes  together  at  the  last, 
265,  266;  and  Longfellow 
praise  each  other  in  letters, 
260;  and  Lowell:  close  rela- 
tions in  the  early  anti-slavery 
days,  255,  256;  and  Lowell:  re- 
lations in  the  Atlantic  Month- 
ly, 256;  and  the  Merrimac 
8;  and  the  sea,  57;  as  a  land- 
scape painter,  5;  asks  Longfel- 
low on  the  strength  of  his  Anti- 
Slavery  poems  to  run  for  Con- 
gress, 259;  Atlantic  dinner  in 
honor  of  seventieth  birthday, 
240-242;  attitude  toward  love, 
307;  belief  in  immortality,  306, 
314;  by  inheritance  and  envir- 
onment affiliated  with  romantic 
aspects  of  New  England  life, 
303 ;  color  in,  18 ;  debt  to  Burns, 
237;  democracy  in,  304-305; 
glimpses  of  his  own  life,  307- 
314;  grief  at  Emerson's  atti- 
tude toward  immortality,  280; 
grief  at  Longfellow's  death, 


261;  political  influence  on  Bry- 
ant, 255;  homestead  at  Haver- 
hill  described,  310,  314;  Quaker 
influences  on  his  thought,  302- 
3;  Longfellow  and  the  Aca- 
dians,  260;  Longfellow  and 
Lowell :  treatment  of  early  his- 
torical traditions,  92;  mobbed, 
173;  on  Webster,  243;  opposed 
to  the  Colonization  Society, 
170;  passion  for  freedom,  302, 
304;  personal  touch  with  Na- 
ture, 16;  poems  mentioned  or 
quoted — "Among  the  Hills,"  12, 
304;  "Anti-Slavery  Poems," 
221;  "Arisen  at  Last,"  188; 
"Birchbrook  Mill,"  118;  "Ban- 
ished from  Massachusetts," 
123;  "Burns,"  237;  "Bridal  of 
Pennacook,"  8,  9,  12,  87; 
"Changeling,  The,"  104,  105; 
"Cobbler  Keezar's  Vision,"  117- 
18;  "Dead  Ship  of  Harpswell, 
The,"  114;  "Double  Headed 
Snake  of  Newbury,  The,"  101-2; 
"Exiles,  The,"  118,  119;  "First 
Day  Thoughts,"  305;  "Funeral 
Fire  of  the  Sokokis,  The,"  81; 
"Garrison  of  Cape  Ann,"  110- 
12;  "Hampton  Beach,"  13,  57; 
"How  the  Robin  Came,"  78; 
"How  the  Women  Went  from 
Dover,"  122;  "Hunters  of  Men, 
The,"  184;  "In  the  'Old 
South/"  120-21;  "King's  Mis- 
sive, The,"  121;  "Last  Week  in 
Autumn,  The,"  16;  "Lexing- 
ton," 146;  "Mabel  Martin, "10, 
11,  102,  103,  104;  "Mar- 
guerite," 127;  "Mary  Garvin," 
138;  "Maud  Muller,"  304; 
"Memories,"  307;  "New  Wife 
and  the  Old,  The,"  116;  "Nor- 
embega,"  94;  "Norsemen, 
The,"  93;  "Pageant,  The,"  17, 
18;  "Pastoral  Letter,  The," 
177,  178,  179,  180;  "Pentucket," 
9,  10;  "Poems  Subjective  and 
Reminiscent,"  307;  "Questions 
of  Life,"  305-6;  "Ranger,  The," 
138,  139;  "Rendition,"  187,  188; 
"Response,"  242;  "Skipper  Ire- 
son's  Ride,"  137,  138;  "St. 
John,"  127,  132,  133,  134,  135: 
"Slave  Ships,  The,"  181,  182, 
183,  184;  "Snow  Bound,"  308, 
313;  "Songs  of  Labor,"  305; 


356 


INDEX 


"Songs  of  Labor  and  Reform," 
304;  "Stanzas  for  the  Times," 
180,  181;  "Prophecy  of  Samuel 
Sewall,  The,"  5;  "Summer  by 
the  Lakeside,"  14,  15;  "Tent  on 
the  Beach,"  57-8;  "To  William 
Lloyd  Garrison,"  175,  176; 
"Truce  of  Piscataqua,"  82; 
"Vanishers,  The,"  306;  "Wish- 
ing Bridge,  The,"  118;  "Witch 
of  Wenham,  The,"  107,  108, 
109,  110;  "Wreck  of  River- 
mouth,  The,"  59,  60,  61,  106, 
107;  praise  of  Holmes,  264;  re- 
gard for  Longfellow,  258;  re- 
ligion, 305-307;  romances  of 


Colonial  times,  123,  127-136, 
137,  138,  139-41;  supernatural- 
ism  in  New  England,  89-118; 
tales  of  Quaker  persecution, 
118-123;  thought  in,  302-314; 
use  of  Indian  lore,  77,  81-90; 
value  of  his  poems  to  the  Anti- 
Slavery  movement,  177;  "Jus- 
tice and  Expediency,"  169; 
mother  described  in  "Snow 
Bound,"  311;  work  for  the 
cause  of  Anti-Slavery,  177. 

White  Hills,  14,  87,  88. 

White  Mountains,  49-82. 

Windham,  81. 

Winnipesaukee,  6. 


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